Strange Love
by OriginalCecilia
Summary: AU: A chance meeting on vacation brings two people together.
1. Chapter 1

_**Dedication: This rewrite of a fanfiction I started ages ago is dedicated to labellebeaucoup. Thank you for encouraging me to start writing again, discussing Scandal with me, and for the numerous early morning Skype chats. (Huge thanks for suffering through my many "Can you repeat that's?" before I got used to your accent).**_

 **Wishes**

 _And they say, "You don't tug on Superman's cape,_

 _You don't spit into the wind_

 _You don't pull the mask off that ol' Lone Ranger_

 _And you don't mess around with Jim." – Jim Croce_

" _Cuanto cuesta?"_ His Spanish was rusty. He'd spent sophomore year sneaking smokes during that period, so he was at a loss. The vendor eyeballed him with a smile that revealed how ripe a sucker she thought he was. His wallet was burning a hole in his pocket.

" _Esto, senor?"_

" _Si."_

" _Diez. No menos."_

" _Tengo cinco. Puedo dar cinco para esto."_ He held up the black fringed shawl and fingered a tiny flaw in the fabric that actually gave it character. She rolled her lips, then moistened them with a sip of lemonade in a sweating, red plastic cup. The ice cubes jangled as she thunked it back down.

" _Es muy bonita, seno! No puedo permitir que lo tienes, eh? Ocho?"_ She was getting warmer. He shook his head. He was enjoying himself.

They bartered back and forth in a jumble of clipped English and half-formed phrases in Spanish until she carefully folded the shawl in brittle wrapping paper and stuffed it into a shopping bag. He handed her a twenty. She gave him a sour look.

" _Tienes cambio?"_

" _Excusame?"_

" _Cambio."_ She picked up the small "take one, leave one" penny tray by her cash box.

Ah. _Change_. Fitz dug into his billfold and peered inside, finally fishing out a five and two singles. She was just as annoyed with his choice of currency, but he had to go convert more of his pin money to pesos before he met Jake. He gladly took back his ten and thanked her for the purchase. He decided to skip perusing the rest of the trinkets at the risk of annoying her after talking her down so low.

Fitz left the stand and strolled through the crowded fresh air market. Various smells mingled and assailed his senses; he succumbed to the safest offering he saw and bought a huge cup of fruit salad marinated in lemon juice and chile. It wouldn't even take the edge off his appetite, but he wanted something to wet his whistle before he met Ballard.

He'd bet good money Jake was already red as a lobster. They'd brought along SPF 50, and his cheeks were already well done beneath the rims of his Oakleys by the time they reached their hotel from Mexico City. But what did he expect? Spending the other fifty weeks of the year in a city where winters usually ran twenty below made a man get ahead of himself. Fitz wasn't in the mood for another white Christmas in Boston, especially when he'd have ended up spending it alone. Fuck it.

His feet fell victim to the blaring music, his steps falling into time with the _banda_ playing across the plaza. Fitz didn't dance. Ever. But he tried with no success not to walk to the beats. He caught his reflection in a car window as it cut him off at the intersection.

Fitz was going native.

His hair was tousled and held auburn glints from the sun, setting off his rich, dark tan. His guayabera shirt held sweat rings and triangles from the humidity, and his lightweight linen pants were rolled up several inches above his ankles. Guarache sandals shod his feet; his heels were cracked and dry. Fitz couldn't resist the daily luxury of the white sand shifting between his toes at the beach.

His stance was relaxed and open, to an extent. Fitz was still mindful of pickpockets, hooking his thumb into his pants pocket and walking with the shopping bag handles looped around his wrist, shielding his wallet. Some habits never died.

The air conditioning chilled him, making his perspiration drop by several degrees and goosebumps break out on his skin when he entered the restaurant. Green talavera tiles covered the floor and the walls of the lobby. He nodded to the cashier out front, who assured him that he could seat himself anywhere.

Ballard beat him to the punch. No surprise, there. Jake was everyone's yes man. Always on time, never broke a promise, and he hated to disappoint anyone. Ever.

He grinned at him as he entered the patio, glad it was only cooled by shade. Jake was sweating as much as he was and smelled faintly of Coppertone. He was darkly tanned but as Fitz guessed, his cheeks were already slightly ruddy. He'd already overdone it. Now he was overdone.

"You have the spare key card already, right?"

"Yeah." Fitz beckoned to the waiter, who barely looked old enough to drive. "What's up?"

"I'm going to be out late tonight." Fitz twisted his lips.

"Is that right."

"Don't wait up."

"Dog."

"One helluva lucky dog, too."

"Name?"

"Carol. That's what she told me it was, anyway."

"Just make sure you don't wake up without your wallet and passport." They were interrupted by their server again, but this time it was a short and slightly rotund woman in dark red lipstick and snug black top, wearing her dark hair full and blown out. She set down Fitz and Jake's drinks, handed them a basket of freshly fried tortilla chips, and ambled off. Jake raised an eyebrow at Fitz's sweating bottle of Corona.

"What'd you get?" Fitz handed over the sack. Jake pawed through it, peering inside. "Nice. Who's it for?"

"My boss's secretary. She made a big fuss over how she isn't going anywhere for Christmas this year except for visiting her in-laws. So I picked up a tidbit."

"Looks like a girlfriend gift."

"Nah. No strings attached." And no headaches involved.

"She'll probably like it."

"Already got all the little crap I was looking for. Few shot glasses, few post cards. T-shirt for my kid sister."

"Nice." Jake downed half of his orange Jarritos, smothering a burp. He'd grown addicted to the sodas since they flew into the airport.

They weren't hungry enough for anything on the main menu and eventually shared an appetizer of chicken flautas cut into medallions and served with sour cream and fresh guacamole.

The next hour found them perusing the beach one more time and taking a final dip. Fitz cleaved his way toward the deep waves and flipped over onto his back. He floated wherever the water took him. It was a rare indulgence.

They returned to the hotel worn out, sandy and smelling like the surf. They took turns with the shower and dug into their traveling kits for shaving cream and hair gel. Fitz didn't even know what his plans were yet, but their motel wasn't remarkable enough to tempt him to stay inside. The Pay-per-View choices were slim.

He slipped into lightweight linen slacks and another guayabera shirt, beige this time, and shoved his feet into his broken-in brown loafers. Jake chuckled as he scrunched a handful of gel into his unruly waves. Fitz scowled at him in the mirror, then made the same face at himself as he tried to smooth his cowlick.

It didn't help. He sighed, then forked his fingers through it, letting his hair fall wherever it felt like. There. Good enough.

"Going through a lot of trouble for a guy with no plans."

"I've got plans. All they involve is going out."

"I'll inform the local authorities."

"Don't wait up," Fitz tossed back, repeating Jack's earlier injunction. Jake sighed as the door slammed behind him.

Fitz was a grown-up, and he didn't need Jake holding his hand when he crossed the street.

But he worried anyway. He'd grown so hard.

The cantina was packed to the rafters. The music throbbed and drifted into the street. From what Fitz could tell, the crowd was all-ages, so he wouldn't be out of place. Good enough.

The drink menu was full of trendy crap and sweet shots that didn't appeal to him. He was craving something with a bite. There were some tempting tequilas lined up behind the bar. Fitz still wasn't hungry for a big meal; the heat was killing his appetite despite the fantastic choices on every corner.

It was about an hour til dusk, but it was already happy hour. The tourists were easy to distinguish from the locals by the sunburns and clothes that didn't quite fit the season. Fitz finally settled on his usual Jack Daniels, neat.

He moved to the patio again, this one lined with potted palms. He found on of the only solitary tables left. Something in his face and the set of his shoulders kept him alone, and he was thankful for it. For the moment.

Then again…

"This seat taken?" A voice straight out of a dirty phone call line interrupted his next sip. The Jack Daniels hovered millimeters shy of his lips. He traced its source, taking the long way up.

His eyes jerked slightly, slowly, taking her in one piece at a time.

Red. Garish, stark red. She wore it unapologetically, standing out from the "I look slimmer in this" black and white cotton that were the staples of every other woman in the room.

You could hardly call it a dress. All he could see were shoulders, the deep swell of her breasts and a glimpse of her taut belly once he got past her legs, and even that took him a while. Short though she was, they were long, toned, tapered, and made for wrapping around a man's waist.

She smiled indolently. Decadently. Like she had a secret.

"It is now."

"I came out here to hear myself think," she admitted as she began to pull up the chair. He knew courtesy required that he rise to do it for her, but she gave him a better view of her chest in the skimpy halter of her dress as she bent forward and sat down.

For five seconds, he could be discourteous. Why the fuck not?

"You here on vacation?" Of course she was. He hated, HATED small talk, but he wanted to keep her there, instead of watching her traipse back to the bar, or worse, the dance floor.

"What do you think?" Her reply mimicked his thoughts, but she was still smiling.

"Where are you from?"

"Here and there. I'm working on a contract in New York after New Year's. First of the year sucks for new business."

"No shit," he agreed, not thinking to curb his language. She didn't appear to mind.

"What's your line of business?"

"Sales. You?"

"More power to you." Her smile was different now. Admiring, but also self-deprecating. "Underwriter."

"Nice." He noticed her drink glass that she'd set down on the table when she arrived. Nearly empty. "Drink?"

"Only if we can get it at the bar."

"Why? Got a great table right here." And it was. The view of the beach was spectacular.

"So we don't have to wait a dog's age to get another drink." Fair enough. This time he rose first, rounding the table and offering her his hand.

Her fingers felt cool and soft, but she released him quickly. She felt the brief press of his palm at her lower back, beckoning her to precede him to the bar. Thankfully there was a second one set up outside. They could watch the sunset.

Anticipation and arousal mingled in his gut. Her perfume was heady and sharp with notes of ginger. It teased him when a breeze whipped her hair, sweeping it off her shoulders and revealing the long line of her neck.

He enjoyed watching the sway of her hips as she walked. He wasn't the only one. She stood out easily, nearly parting the crowd as they passed. His knuckles itched at the calls of "Ay, mami!" as she leaned against the counter and caught the barkeep's attention.

She ordered their drinks, asking for another of what they were already having. His body was already drawn to hers; he flanked her side, close enough to her hair to tickle him and cling to his shirt in the breeze.

"What's your name?"

"You can call me Fitz."

"You can call me Carolyn."

"That your real name?" He had to be sure. He needed something to offer the cops in case she ripped him off, he supposed.

"I answer to Carolyn," she shrugged. Her smile rose a notch. She toyed with the ice cubes in her glass, swirling them with her finger.

"It's nice."

"Thanks." She eyed him over the rim as she took a sip. "How long are you here?"

"Another two days."

"Back to the real world," she mourned. He chuckled at her mock pout.

"If it were my world, this _would_ be the real world. It's going to be hard to tear myself away and hop back on a plane."

"I think I want to come visit your world for a while, then." They spoke in low tones to better hear themselves over the din of music and laughter.

"I'll make you a reservation, babe." She was studying him, drinking him in. He felt naked under her gaze. "What?"

"You can make a wish."

"Come again?" She smiled decadently, feeling he made it too easy, practically walking right into it. _Is that an offer? Or a promise?_ He arched his brow and his own smile deepened half a notch.

He got the joke.

"Your little pendant." Her fingertips were cool as they grazed his flesh. Every cell in his body awoke sharply, aware of her closeness and light touch.

She fiddled idly with the sturdy gold chain, making it rasp his skin as she fed it around his neck. She watched his throat with great concentration as she fixed him. "When it's on backwards, you make a wish."

"Really? Hm," he shrugged. She peered down at the small St. Christopher medal pursed between her finger and thumb. "You're a woman of insight," he challenged. "Tell me what I should wish for."

"That's not how it works," she said.

"Tell me." His fingertips traced an indolent path down the length of her hand until he ringed her wrist in his grasp. She shivered. His skin radiated heat, even before she touched him.

"You have to keep your wish to yourself or it won't come true." Her tone mocked him. "Like a wishbone. Or birthday candles." She gently unfolded his fingers and turned his wrist face-up. She reached for a salt shaker and bowed her lips to his pulse. Her pink tongue flicked out to taste the taut vein before she sprinkled a few grains on it, seasoning him.

He grew hard. The sight of her tongue and its soft lapping at his skin was enough.

 _Was it his birthday?_

"Eyelashes," she mused, signaling the barkeep for another by raising her empty shot glass. "You let someone else blow away a loose one, if you have one." The barkeep thunked down a full glass; it reflected the sunlight and the garish colors of the lounge's décor. Moisture oozed down its sides as she ran her fingers over the rim. "Some girls like spinning an apple off its stem. One turn for each letter of the alphabet."

"Some girls." Absently he reached for a tiny wedge of lime from a tray shaped like a palm tree. "Not you?"

"Not my kind of wish." She held up the shot, saluting him.

Fitz never broke their gaze as he tucked the lime wedge between his teeth.

This time she bobbed her head and lapped up the salt, flattening her tongue for a thorough taste. She felt his body stiffen and tossed back the shot, savoring the burn. She only let go of his wrist long enough to fist her hand in the collar of his beach shirt. She brought the sharp sting of tequila to him, exchanging it for the tart morsel between his lips.

Beads of pulp punctured and exploded across his tongue as her even white teeth grazed his lower lip, slightly sunburned from his swim. She teased him, wresting the prize from him and sucking on _him_ like he was an appetizer.

She was milking him.

Her tongue nimbly swept the wedge of lime from the recess of his mouth. "Mmmph. Mmnh."

"Mmmph," he replied on a low rumble. She reluctantly let him go, allowing him enough oxygen to come back to his senses.

 _So help me_ …She was holding the lime between her fingers, diligently draining its juice. She tossed the used-up tidbit onto her cocktail napkin.

"Thirsty?"

"I was." She dipped into her canvas hobo bag and pulled out a twenty. His hand stopped her sliding it across the bar as the waitress approached. Fitz fished out a couple of crumpled tens from his pocket and settled their tabs.

"Are you finished?"

"Here," she said, nodding to their surroundings. "But there's a problem."

"What's that?"

"I'm hungry."

They made it to another open market and Fitz purchased a plate of soft tacos for them to share. They ate with their fingers, licking them clean of the spicy green tomatillo sauce.

"Where do you live, Fitz?"

"Boston."

"You're headed back to snow."

"Don't remind me."

"Bet mine's colder than yours."

"Not on your life!"

"Manhattan," she announced.

"Is it so cold you can't inhale the air without wearing a muffler around half of your face?"

"Worse. It's so cold you can't talk without your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth."

"Pansy," he teased. She poked him in the ribs.

"Look who's talking. You're here in the sweltering heat, like me."

"Can you blame me? Look at this place." They were already walking back down the street toward the beach.

"I don't want to leave," she admitted. "Ever."

"Enjoy it while it lasts."

"It's nice."

"Mmm-hm."

"I mean all this, but having someone to share it with."

"You didn't travel with anyone?"

"Nope. Just me, and all the voices in my head along for this trip."

They reached the shore. Their shoes dangled from their fingers as they strolled across the sand. Their shoulders bumped until he took her hand in his.

He was so easy to be with. She rationalized that this was why she'd abandoned common sense and any control of her impulses.

She'd needed to get away from her life. A diversion. A time-out. She needed time to just "be".

Whether he knew it or not, Fitz fit the bill.

"Fitz." He let her gently tug him to a halt. She tossed her shoes onto the sand and reached for his face, cupping his jaw. His lips met hers halfway just as he crushed her to him.

His hands were firm around her waist, gripping them as she kissed him senseless. They exchanged breath and heat and want. Her arms twined around his neck, and she moaned with need when his hands roamed and slid down to her hips, grinding her against him. He was already erect and straining toward her softness through his linen pants.

They were out in the open and wearing too many clothes. Fitz planned to remedy both problems in one shot.

"Come on."

They only scrambled back into their shoes when they reached the beach parking lot. He stole one more long, hungry kiss before they headed back into the street.

"Where are you staying?"

"La Playa resort on Mercado Street."

"Mine's three streets down," he argued.

"Drive," she ordered as they piled into his rental car. He was checking his mirrors and pulling into traffic as she turned off his radio, too keyed up to want the distraction of music. Traffic stopped at the second intersection; he cursed under his breath. Carolyn giggled. Her hand stroking his knee, squeezing it, consoled him slightly but made him more impatient to reach their destination.

"You don't want to do that right now," he grated out.

"Oh, but I do." Her hand was sliding south, her pinky nearly flicking the bulge rising between his legs.

"Jesus." Traffic stopped again. He took advantage of it and lunged across the console, fisting his hand in her hair and kissing her roughly, sucking her lower lip. Carolyn purred in approval; he tasted hot and his lips were firm and demanding.

A car honked impatiently behind them. He broke away and drove. Her hand covered his over the gearshift. He wanted her to stroke him instead.

They attempted to walk calmly through the front lobby. Again, several sets of eyes followed her, but this time his hand at her waist was slightly possessive. They entered the elevator and waited breathlessly for the doors to shut.

He fell upon her, pressing her back into the corner as their hands groped and kneaded and tugged.

"Damn it, this is nuts!"

"Don't stop. Please, just don't stop."

"Not on your life. Taste so damned good, babe. I want to eat you up." The chime dinged, and they came up for air long enough to make their exit. They reached his door, and Fitz fumbled for his key card. His hands were shaking. She pressed her breasts against his back and teased his neck with her lips.

"Hurry."

"Just give me a sec…aw, God!" Her arms enfolded his waist and she stroked his taut abdomen, nipping at his ear. His knees practically buckled. He found the card and punched it into the slot, yanking it out. They fell inside, and he couldn't wait. Not one second.

Fitz kicked the door shut and extinguished the lights; the sunset provided a backdrop for the silhouette of their bodies as they came together. Their lips fused hungrily and they felt feverish as their fingers tore at each other's clothes. He was impatient with the fastening of her dress; she reached up one-handed and heard a snap. It pooled in a red puddle around her ankles, leaving her bare and lush except for a tiny, black pair of bikinis.

She was about to kick off her shoes. "Uh-uh. Leave them on."

"Are you kidding?"

"Hell, no. Leave them on." She was so sexy she made him hurt. She worked open three of his buttons before he yanked his shirt over his head. Her hands played over the melody of solid muscles on his chest, raking her nails gently through the crisp of dark hair.

"I don't care. Whatever you want. I want you." Their hands fumbled and awkwardly for his buckled until she wrested his away and jerked it open, kissing him at his look of amused surprise. "Now. I don't care how. Gimme!"

"Shit!" He nearly tripped over his pants, now down his knees. The air conditioning made his nibbles pebble. Hers were already pouting and ripe, begging to be tasted. He embraced her, devouring her mouth. Her world felt tipped on its ear as he lifted her, arms locked around her waist, barreling them both against the wall.

"Fitz – mmmph!" He hooked his hands behind her knees, hoisting her up and wrapping those tempting legs around his waist. She felt herself dip slightly as he jerked down his boxers. Fitz's mouth trailed hotly over her face as she clung to him for support, pressing her cheek against his pulse.

"Just tell me you're ready, babe. Please." His cock slapped her thigh as it bobbed free. She ground herself against it instinctively; her pearl throbbed as it rubbed against him, testing his hardness.

"Now," she hissed.

He didn't bother taking off her underpants. Fitz tugged aside the crotch, dipped his fingers inside her and plumbed her. She was wet, and enticingly hot. Her walls squeezed his fingers and promised ecstasy if he could only get inside…

He rubbed the head of his cock against her dewy flesh, slicking himself with it before he pressed himself inside.

"Jesus," he prayed again. His second thrust sheathed him completely within her depths. Her eyes went wide, uncomprehending that he could make her feel that way, so full and stretched and exposed.

He needed to fuck. His brain screamed at him to move, to possess her however he could. He needed to hear her cry his name and drain him. He wanted to smell her scent on his flesh when he woke up. But he didn't want to wake up from this. It was the best dream he'd ever had.

"Ride me," she rasped in his ear. She bit his neck. His hips bucked in response, and he obeyed her command.

They watched each other's faces straining with need and desire as he rutted inside her. The wall was unyielding at her back but she didn't care. Her heels bounced against his ass as he thrust in and out of her sweetness. She clutched handfuls of his gloriously thick, soft hair and possessed his mouth.

Before she could protest, he turned them, still engaged at the hip, and carried her to the bed. They tumbled down and were buffeted apart only long enough for her to back her way up the mattress, giving him room. She welcomed him back, and he entered her once more, this time harder and more easily with the new position.

The headboard banged against the wall as he slammed into her, creating friction and heat in her loins. Heat spread over her, making her breasts jiggle and tingle all the way down to the tips. He paused only long enough for his mouth to latch onto one, groaning around her flesh. She tasted so good, like sun-warmed fruit. His tongue swiveled around it, enflaming her.

"Oh, God, Fitz, please! Oh, God," she prayed. They continued like that as the sky turned watercolor shades of orange and pink outside.

He needed to see her.

Fitz reared back and grasped her legs, prying them farther apart. He pulled her ankles up so that her legs formed a wide 'V' while he kneeled upright, giving him a perfect vantage point to look his fill.

Her fingers dug into his thighs. He was banging into her harder, faster, deeper; the sight of her face straining with pleasure, chanting curses and his garbled name sped him toward completion.

"Carolyn!" he huffed. "Aw, God, Carolyn! So fucking good, you feel too good, you're going…to make me –" His words were cut off as he fell over the edge. His hips spasmed and she felt the swell and cramp of his dick as he erupted inside her.

Those final, fast jerks sent her hurtling after him. She gasped and sobbed his name over and over as her climax shook her.

He released her legs. They felt slightly cramped as she let them splay open, and he collapsed against her, spent. Her arms drifted around him, embracing him as though they'd done this before.

"Sorry," he mumbled into her throat.

"Why?"

"That was faster than I wanted. I couldn't wait."

"You don't hear me complaining?"

"I wanted to touch you and take my time with you."

"You can do that now." He leaned up on his elbows and watched her. Carolyn's smile was content and replete when she caressed his jaw.

"Might take you up on that." Her toes ran down the length of his calf, once she kicked off her shoes.

And he did. They spent the rest of the night cuddling and touching between bouts of making love and dropping off to sleep.

He tasted a remnant of whiskey and salsa on his tongue when he woke up. He was slightly stiff from sleeping in odd positions, and he groaned at the brisk click of the door.

"Wakey, wakey, sport," Jake crowed cheerfully. He made a face at the tangled covers and scattered clothes. "Wow. Rough night?"

"Mmmph."

"Rough night," Jake declared.

 _Carolyn._

Fitz bolted awake. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" He jerked himself up and bunched the covers over his lower half, searching the room. "Where is she?" Fitz hoped she was decent.

"Who?"

"I had company." He didn't hear the shower running or smell shampoo.

"'Had' company is right. Looks like she skeddadled." Fitz squinted at the floor.

Only his clothes and shoes. No purse or high heels. He rubbed his face, then grimaced at his throbbing temples. That would teach him to mix.

"Shit."


	2. Chapter 2

**I will update a chapter a day until this story is finished. I know the site is being wonky about sending out update alerts, so you may have to look.**

 _ **Hangovers in Coach Class**_

She had to be out of her mind. Or the real Olivia had been kidnapped by pod people. There was no other explanation for the night before.

She hadn't even kissed him goodbye.

The enormity of what she'd done sank in as soon as she woke up. She stifled her own moan of exhaustion when she felt something solid moving beneath her cheek.

 _Fitz._

He was solid and warm, and his arm currently pinned her against his side. Hot breath steamed her temple, stirring tendrils of her hair. He smelled faintly of whiskey.

Panic gripped her, speeding her pulse. She had to go. Now.

She gradually eased her way out from his embrace – reluctantly, since he felt so good, like cuddling a teddy bear – and crept out of the bed. He was out like a light, his sonorous breathing nearly a snore.

She watched him flip onto his back, flinging his arm over his head. The movement made him look so vulnerable, so peaceful, that she nearly changed her mind.

He wasn't conventionally handsome, but he was memorable. His body was beautifully sculpted and sturdy. He was hairy and very male, and she was transfixed by the deep rise and fall of his chest. His abdomen was a washboard of muscle, marred only by what looked like an appendix scar. His skin was tanned; she could tell he was probably olive-toned rather than fair without that much time in the sun.

His brows drew together before he rolled to his side. His hand seemed to be searching the sheets. That launched her back into action. She fumbled into her dress and caught her shoes and purse in her hand. She could have sworn she heard him murmur her name in his sleep as she gently eased the door open and fled.

She had no idea what she would have said to him. Thanks? I'll call you? Look me up the next time you're in Queens?

Her way was the best way. When he woke up, he'd be grateful to her for making it easier on them both. Sure. Sure he would.

She'd loved _Fear of Flying_ when she read it in college. To quote Isadora, Fitz was her "zipless fuck". No commitments. No back story or excuses. No reasoning why it had happened or assuming it would lead to anything else.

Her vacation was the beginning of her promise to herself that she'd never again _lose_ herself.

She popped a piece of Wrigley's into her mouth and started reading her Nora Roberts book before the plane reached full altitude. Her head throbbed. She dug into her bag for some Motrin. And that was that.

* * *

Hair of the dog, Fitz assured himself, would get him through this. Man, he hated flying.

"Your funeral," Jake shrugged as he watched Fitz gulp down the Bloody Mary. He leaned back and closed his eyes miserably. He felt like shit.

"Don't lecture me, Ballard."

"They won't let you on the connecting flight if you drink too many of those."

"One's all I need." Truth be told? Fitz needed anesthesia. This was the closest he was going to get until they reached the terminal at Logan Airport.

He pored through his Elmore Leonard novel that he'd picked up at the airport gift shop, but the words blurred in front of his eyes ten chapters in. Once they were cruising over the Atlantic coast, Jake booted up his laptop. Fitz abandoned him for a nap. He woke up with a crick in his neck once the plane skidded against the runway.

* * *

"Girl…mmmh. I don't know what to do with you when you get yourself into this shit."

"Just don't take blackmail pictures or record it to put my nekkid behind on YouTube," Olivia suggested. Bre's lips twisted and she narrowed her eyes.

"He was a complete stranger. He could have been a psychopath. He could have given you AIDs or STDs or fleas for Heaven's sake…"

"Lice. Not fleas."

"Don't sass me, baby girl." Bre was getting worked up and talking out of her neck, hands on her hips. "Might as well tell me the rest."

"Rest of what?"

"Listen to you. Did he have skills? How was it?"

"Good Lord." Olivia fanned herself.

"Damn. That good?"

"Oh. Bre. I can't even begin to…" Her phone jangled from the kitchen. She sprinted to pick it up but decided on the lazy man's way, hitting the speaker button.

"Carolyn!" It was her boss, Mellie. Olivia sighed. Back to reality. Heifer couldn't just wait until she got back to the office in twenty-four hours. "I'm so glad you're back."

"What's going on?" Nice of her control freak manager to ask her how she was or how she liked her trip. No "So glad your plane didn't go up in flames on the way home" from Melody Roberts.

"So I was just calling to let you know that there was a change in that AMT meeting with OptforWellth."

"What did they change?"

"Everything. Different facilitator, different time, different day. Abby's sending out the revised announcement to the routing list."

"So when is it?"

"Tomorrow at eight AM."

Olivia stifled an "aw, hell, no!" and made a face at Bre, who leaned back into her couch rolling her eyes. Olivia made gagging motions with her hands, pretending to stick one down her throat.

She'd no sooner unlocked her door, checked her mail, and begun unpacking before the woman expected her to be into work with bells on, jumping through hoops.

"I need the demographics for the Shake 'n' Take account. They changed their effective date."

"They signed already for 1/1."

"They want to add a flexible spending account effective April first."

"Shit…" Mellie tsked; Olivia could almost see her on the other end of the line, shaking her head at her choice of words. Hey, Olivia figured, technically she was still at home. She could say whatever she darn well pleased. Mellie wasn't going to turn a random phone call into a meeting.

"We'll just have to buckle down this week. And every week until we get the workload down to size."

"No doubt."

"See you at the meeting," Mellie trilled. "Oh, and go ahead and save the rate sheet as an attachment in the database so we can get to it." Olivia sighed.

"I'll update the numbers –"

"No. Oh, no. We're not amending their rates for the renewal. It was a condition of their agreement not to charge them more for adding the spending account."

"Good enough for me." Less work in the long run, she hoped.

"Hope you had a nice vacation," Mellie pronounced. That didn't bode well. She hung up without further ado. Olivia clicked the handset off and proceeded to bank it against her forehead. Bre laughed.

"Alright. I want to hear more about this man. What does he do?"

"He said sales."

"Mm-hm. Likely story. He could be a checker at Target for all you know."

"He was well dressed. Had on a nice watch."

"An ex could have given it to him."

"Said he lives in Boston."

"Eh. Still too far away to bother with anything long distance."

"I don't want anything long distance. I didn't leave him any information. I beat feet."

"Damn, girl."

"I'm not going to have a 'pen pal' who's supposedly the love of my life after one date."

"Speaking of which…"

"He already gave me back my key. Saved me having the locks changed." Bre bit back an "I told you so" and began removing items from Olivia's carryall, dropping them into a small laundry basket. What else were friends like Bre Baker for, if not to help her unload her baggage?

"Anyway, what'd you bring me? Kick down," she reminded her. Olivia's face lit up.

"Ooooh. Yeah. Hold up, hold up…" She nudged Bre aside and rummaged through a tiny pocket inside the bag and pulled out a tiny paper one. She uncrumpled it and handed her a small box inside. Bre flipped open and cackled.

"Girl, I love this!" It was a ceramic tile fired and glazed with dancing skeletons inscribed with "Dia de Los Muertos". She clucked her tongue and held it up for a better look. "I'm going to add this to my house number plaque out front."

"When do you close escrow?"

"Next week."

"Better warm up that gas grill."

"Luke's already got a propane tank and some of those extra long barbecue tongs. He's more than ready."

"I can't wait. I can't wait to see everything when you two get moved in."

"You and me both. Seriously. My neighbors are driving me nuts. Nuts, I tell you. They were out front acting ghetto in the parking lot at nine in the morning on Sunday."

"Mmph. What now?" Olivia rolled her eyes.

"You don't want to know."

"Lay it on me."

"She screamed at him that he farted." After a pause, Olivia's shoulders shook and she face-palmed. "You heard me."

"Say it isn't so."

"The whole building heard those two fools. Back and forth about no he didn't, and she was a psycho, and he was a pig, and why didn't she just light a match…"

"That's just wrong."

They chatted over a snack in Olivia's kitchen; naturally, Bre came bearing gifts in the form of Subway sandwiches. Olivia didn't cook. Not even under penalty of death.

Her mother would be turning over in her grave at the contents of her refrigerator. Maya Lewis was a born homemaker from the jump. Griller of cheese sandwiches, folder of hospital bed corners, hostess of Mary Kay parties. Olivia shunned her legacy, majored in business at BU, denounced commitment and never looked back.

Olivia fished out some bottled water and poured it into two red plastic cups from her last house party. Bre glanced over her shoulder at the mostly bare shelves inside the fridge and tsked. She saw expired yogurt, a bag of dried-up broccoli and a bottle of ketchup that had been in the door since the first Bush administration. Of the first Bush.

"That's pitiful."

"Hey, what do you want. I was out of town."

"Not for a whole year."

"I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

"Love me and my dirty drawers."

"Uh, no. Not those…" Bre tossed a bit of provolone cheese into her mouth and swigged some of the water.

A while later Olivia's washing machine was rumbling in the background when Bre stood to go.

"Listen up. Call me. Quinn's having one of her Pampered Chef parties."

"Girl, please."

"Just go to see Quinn. Waste money on something cute like on of those little oil spritzers. Or a can opener. You open cans. Sometimes. Kind of."

"Hmmph."

"Humor me. She'd love to see you."

"I'll think about it." She'd probably go. She didn't have anything else to do, and, obviously, it was Quinn. She loved Quinn, Avon catalogs, Partylite candles, scrapbooks, and all.

It reminded her so much of mama.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Messages**_

Fitz juggled his carryon bag with his camera case as he boarded the escalator, hating the "off-balance" feel from being in a plane for so many hours. His legs were cramped and his foot had that prickly feeling from falling asleep.

"Papa Gino's?" Jake inquired.

"Yep."

They managed to stop at one on their way to the subway tunnel for the Red Line. Fitz wolfed down a thick slice of sausage and olive pizza, folding it in half to catch the drippings before they could land on his favorite coat. The freezing air bit into them as soon as they stepped outside.

Good morning, Boston.

The odors of the subway assaulted his nose; that much he hadn't missed, but it was so much more convenient than taking a car. Fitz and Jake boarded their train and sped past stop after stop, plunged into darkness each time they hit an unlit segment of the tunnels. Jake wasn't particularly chatty after keeping his friend a captive audience on the plane, so at least Fitz could be alone with his thoughts.

She said she was from New York. Manhattan. She was an underwriter.

He almost didn't know why he cared. She made it loud and clear by her hasty exit that they were done. Hoping for anything else was a pipe dream Fitz wouldn't entertain. She left him with another nice memory of his vacation. End of story.

He didn't even know if Carolyn was her real name. She at least looked like a Carolyn, he mused.

They emerged from the tunnel and parted ways at the bus stop; Jake was headed back to his overpriced apartment in Cambridge. It was only four o'clock, and the sky above them was already changing from pearl gray to oppressive black. Fitz was already settling back into the doldrums, but he was still relieved to be home.

"Give me a call to let me know you got home all right."

"What do you think? We came all this way without a hitch, and someone's going to snatch me off the street before I make it another mile home?"

"Humor me," Jake nagged before clapping him on the back. He waved back as he disappeared onto the bus. Fitz waited in the glassed-in shelter for the next one headed south, watching a drizzle of rain hit the panes.

The bus's smell wasn't much of an improvement from the subway. The various street lights and neon signs looming in the dark as they rode past hypnotized him, making him drowsy. He nearly missed his stop but jerked the window cord just in time. The driver looked annoyed as he peered back into his large rearview mirror. Fitz stumbled off the bus through the rear exit and dodged the rain as he ran down those last several blocks toward his home.

His first stop was his mailbox. It was stuffed full of bills and junk mail, and there was a small yellow slip stating "Sorry We Missed You" from the post office. He wasn't expecting a package.

Fitz stomped his feet on the welcome mat outside his door to beat off the dirty slush from his boots. As soon as he unlocked his door, the smell of his unaired apartment wrapped around him but confirmed that he was home.

Minutes later, the heat was turned on and his cold toes were beginning to thaw, stuffed into clean wool socks. He opened every letter, whether it looked like junk or not, and laid them into separate stacks. His kitchen was meticulously clean, at odds with his upbringing. His mother kept a shamefully messy house. Despite an exhaustive trip home, Fitz's insomnia claimed him, giving him his second wind.

His voicemails were next.

 _Beep._ "You didn't call me. I'll assume you were abducted by aliens or that you fell asleep. I'm putting out an APB if you're not at the meeting." Frigging Ballard…

Fitz's stomach twisted as soon as he heard her voice. He eyed the yellow slip on the table and picked it up. From the date, they tried to reach him yesterday. Bekah must have forgotten his itinerary and when he'd be back. He took the slip and tacked it up on his bulletin board by the refrigerator.

He felt numb. That hadn't changed.

 _Beep_. "It's Ed. Thought I'd call and talk. You left me a message. Catch you later." Fitz sighed and sank into his chair, brooding. He scrubbed his face with his palms. _Why?_

The rest of the calls were hang-ups, no doubt telemarketers who missed him at home; his caller ID blinked "Unknown Caller" as he toggled through the numbers, deleting them one by one. That left his email.

He didn't even bother flicking on his bedroom light as he booted up his desktop, bringing his cocoa with him. His Dilbert screensaver blinked on and his PC made weird cranking noises; he either needed more memory or a new frigging computer. Either option made his wallet ache.

His Google inbox wasn't that full. There were about a half a dozen "FW:" emails from Jake's brother, Alex. He scanned the subject lines and deleted them without opening them. His Classmates subscription was almost up; Fitz contemplated canceling it, since he hadn't found anyone he knew from school after having it for over a year. His cable bill was due. His phone bill was due.

Ed sent him some attachments, big ones from the size indicated in the message index. His PC made more grinding noises as it tried to download the files.

 _Thought you might like a copy of these. I can send more of the ones that I have, once I scan them._

 _Ed_

His screen flashed, then expanded, revealing a large image a few centimeters at a time.

His breath caught as his mother's eyes came into view. Then her smile. It was his smile, or so he'd been told. And it was rare.

He leaned back in his chair and released a long, shaky breath, bowing his face and rubbing the bridge of his nose.


	4. Chapter 4

**Questions:**

 **Guest (1) – I, too, am a black woman. That conversation mimicked very closely the type of conversations I have with my own friends.**

 **Guest (2) – I did not provide the translations for the Spanish sentences in chapter one for two reasons: 1. I tried to convey through imagery what they were saying and 2. I am not one hundred percent certain that those sentences are correct. Labellebeaucoup did try to help me; however, she is a native French speaker and while she tried to make some parallels between the two, Spanish and French really aren't all that similar. The last two chapters were filler chapters. This story is already complete which is why there are daily upgrades. Some chapters will be longer and some shorter.**

 **Any questions, I will try to answer in either a private message or the beginning of the chapter. Thanks for the reviews everyone! - CeeCee**

 _ **Meetings**_

"Can we have a quick head count?"

"Why don't I just start?"

"That's fine."

"This is Melody Roberts, calling in from out branch here in Manhattan."

Olivia took that as her cue and spoke into the air, as always feeling silly sitting next to the large conferencing phone. It looked like something out of Star Trek _Voyager_ , and the volume button almost never worked properly.

"Good afternoon, this is Carolyn, Carolyn Pope, here with Melody."

"Your title, give them your title," Mellie hissed under her breath. Olivia smothered a sigh.

"I'm underwriting this account," she offered. She was met by a tinny chorus of hellos on the other end.

"Is it Carolyn or Olivia?" a male voice inquired that didn't sound familiar to her ears.

"I answer to Carolyn," she elaborated. Mellie nodded in agreement and smiled, even though the other meeting participants couldn't see it.

"Glad to have you aboard, Carolyn! This is Jake, Jake Ballard. I'm handling the ancillaries on this account."

"Great!"

"We didn't expect them to purchase dental and life on their renewal."

"We're still trying to pitch them our vision package."

"Good luck on that," Alice chimed in. She was calling in from the regulatory department on short notice after sifting through strings of emailed dialogue regarding mandated requirements. Olivia thanked God that New York wasn't a "white space" state for their carrier. Shake 'n' Take liked OptforWellth's preferred plans with very few tweaks.

"Has legal already approved the new shell?"

"They have for the policy. Still waiting on the booklet," Alice admitted with a sigh.

"When will we have the client on the line?" Mellie whispered. Olivia thoughtfully put their phone on mute.

"They said they're calling in late. I'm waiting on an email from their admin." Olivia's stomach was already in knots, and she abandoned her half-finished coffee.

"Wish they'd get on with it, then," Mellie grumbled. "If they're paying us enough money, I guess they expect us to wait all day."

Olivia smothered a laugh; Mellie came up with about three different errands she needed Olivia to do at the last minute, including bringing along a jump drive with all of the meeting attachments in case anyone was on their laptop and didn't have access to the database, coffee (which she could barely drink, thanks to her nerves), and placing the lunch reservations for fifteen people. Pot calling the kettle black? Definitely.

And black was her signature color. Mellie wore it like she meant it, all except for her French-manicured nails and mean slash of red lipstick. She was a striking woman, classically beautiful, but she had hard eyes that chilled a man to the bone. Her long ripple of brown hair was held back from her face with a tortoiseshell barrette, emphasizing the slant of her eyes and sharp cheekbones.

Mellie trusted few people, a trait that had taken her far and cost her few failures. Olivia was her right hand; Olivia made a point of staying one step ahead of her expectations to avoid being her scapegoat.

Olivia had certainly dealt with worse account managers than Melody Roberts. _Few_ , granted. But worse.

Olivia was one hell of an underwriters, but she'd never have answered that was what she wanted to be when she grew up. She merely lived by the numbers. Literally.

Her mother knew at least ten recipes that involved hot dogs. They'd been a staple in the Pope household as long as she could remember, because they were cheap. Eli and Maya were dirt poor for several years before her father's ship finally came in as a broadcast journalist.

Until then, school was miserable.

Olivia Carolyn Pope was the only ten-year-old on the planet who hated recess. She lingered beneath a tall oak right inside the fence, doodling on scraps of paper she'd stuffed into her pockets on the way to lunch. Quinn and Bre were in a different lunch group; she wouldn't see hide nor hair of them until they walked home from school.

In the meantime, she had to deal with the Cuckoos.

They called themselves the Queens, but Olivia came up with her own moniker after her teacher showed them a nature film about the birds who hijacked nests they didn't build themselves.

Emma, Ysabel, Sofia, Amanda, Selene, and Jacqueline all acted, looked, dressed and sounded so much alike that they were interchangeable. Emma Yockey was their appointed sovereign and mouthpiece. None of them attacked their chosen target first, opting instead to scope out their prey for the weakest member of the pack.

Emma determined which day of the week they wore pink socks and ribboned barrettes. She went first at every game of hopscotch and stopped the tetherball mid-spin whenever she deemed a do-over. She named any girl on the playground who couldn't do a back handspring a queer, and heaven help any of them who tried to defend themselves.

They took one look at Olivia's clothes her mother bought her from the clearance rack of Sears and had a field day.

So Olivia became obsessed with having enough money. Not lots of money, _enough_ money. She hoarded pocket change and looked for pennies between the couch cushions. Stray nickels were harvested from the cupholders in her father's battered Dodge station wagon. She dumped all of the loot into a change jar her mother kept in the cupboard with the salad bowls, enjoying the clink that sounded less hollow each time she made a deposit.

She mentally added sales tax for every dollar she spent at the five and dime. She was the one who split up the bill each time she, Quinn, and Bre went to Friendly's for a single scoop. Olivia believed strongly in layaway to buy her own school clothes from what she earned at her summer job every year. She counted out her cash down to the last penny and carried those boxes home under arm proudly, receipt tucked into her pocket.

By ninth grade, the Cuckoos grew bored with Olivia and moved on to Anya Lindsey and her eczema that was so bad, no one wanted to touch her. Anya was relatively wealthy but still managed to be an underdog; rumors flew around the school about her mother, who was inexplicably single. No one knew whether she was widowed or divorced, since no one had ever seen a Mr. Lindsey at school functions or at the Stop and Shop. She was intrigued by Olivia, who was pretty, smart, funny, and wouldn't hurt a fly. Literally. Olivia was the kind of girl who would catch a spider in a napkin and gently toss it back outside where it belonged.

Anya always offered to pay their way; Olivia always refused. They went to the mall once or twice a month, where Olivia would count out her pocket change and get herself and Orange Julius and Anya would buy a chili dog. They'd people watch and duck whenever a cute boy caught them staring and dared stare back. They were thick as thieves.

In short, Olivia never wanted to depend on anyone to give her what she felt responsible to acquire for herself.

The Cuckoos did their level best to steal away any perspective friends who made any overtures of good will, but as high school progressed, people made up their own minds. They knew a fake when they saw one, and Emma's glossy good looks were no match for her vicious tongue.

For Olivia, the best revenge was living well. The Cuckoos ended up as trophy wives to cheating husbands the last time she'd seen any of them at her high school reunion. Olivia silently laughed her way to the bank.

Her reverie was broken by an abrupt greeting on the other end of the call.

"We were afraid we'd missed you," Jake told someone in the background.

"Got caught up in traffic, bus got stuck in road construction." The new arrival had a deep voice that was unabashedly male and unapologetic. And why should he be? He got stuck in traffic, she mused.

Something about his voice sounded…yummy.

"Olivia, Melody, I've got our broker here right now, looking a little the worse for wear…introduce yourself to the nice ladies," he chuckled.

"Hey. I'm Thomas, Thomas Grant. Might've seen my name in a few email strings."

"They all run together after a while," Olivia admitted. "But it was nice of you to join us today."

"You too. Welcome aboard." Olivia and Mellie were both pleased.

They discussed the transactions while Olivia had them open the attachments onscreen to review rates.

"So where's the set of rates for the renewal? For the COBRA members?" she heard Thomas ask, inadvertently interrupting Mellie.

"They're in the second sheet," Olivia told him. She heard him rifling pages in the background, wondering why.

"That's not what's in the hard copy. I have the copy that the client got from me at time of sales. It's the set they signed on."

"What day did you get the signatures?" Mellie barked. Olivia scowled and started swirling her remaining coffee in its to-go cup.

"On the first, exactly thirty days prior to their effective date. It was a clean sale."

"I'm not arguing that it was," Mellie told him gently, but Olivia caught the brief flare of her nostrils and wanted to tell the guy on the other end, "Look, Chuckles, RUN!"

"We did this sale by the book. The rates were supposed to be locked in for twelve months for the products sold, health plans and ancillary."

"Yes, but they have COBRA," Olivia interjected. The guy was working her last nerve. "COBRA and Retirees."

"I realize that." His voice took on a certain "I know you are, but what am I?" edge that made her teeth grind. "What I'm looking for is a breakdown of their rates that the client can see up front, easily indicated, showing the premiums their COBRA and retired lives can expect to pay."

"Like in yellow highlighter pen?" Olivia muttered under her breath. Mellie scowled and put the phone on mute while Olivia fiddled with the laptop.

She took over the web conference, mousing over the attachments and pulling down file menus as she spoke.

"Look. Here are the COBRA numbers. Here are the retirees. This will be spelled out on the group policy and labeled pretty clearly when we send this to Contracts. Was that what you had in mind?"

"Pretty much." She was about to sigh in relief until he said "Make sure we do this on the other plans, too."

"Wait…"

"Dental, vision, and life. All of the rates need the same breakdown for those demographics and corresponding language in the booklets."

"Fine," Mellie announced, restoring their end of the connection. Olivia fumed. _Fine, then._

The rest of the meeting ran into similar stops and starts. Jake ended up being Olivia's favorite, placating Mellie whenever his colleague played devil's advocate.

"So you'll send out new attachments to reflect the rate corrections?" Olivia was interrupted from her stewing.

"I save them on the shared drive."

"Emailing them leaves a paper trail with a date when you changed them."

"People hate email clogging up their inboxes."

"I have hundreds of messages in mine," Mellie added with a roll of her eyes. She tapped one long, French-manicured nail against her Blackberry. The noise was driving Olivia nuts, but what was one more thing?

"Some of us work remotely more often than in-house," Thomas informed them curtly. "You can imagine the life of a broker."

"I can imagine," Olivia admitted dryly.

On the other end of the line, Fitz clenched his fist in his lap and pounded back a double latte, wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingers. What was up with this chick? Geez…

…and what was it about her voice?

If she wasn't busy working him over, it would have been a nice voice. Deep, throaty and smooth, a low alto, the kind of voice made for laughing until you were breathless. Her inflections were familiar, definitely an east coast girl, but not necessarily by birth?

The day hadn't started any better than this meeting, even before he got out the door. Fitz's stomach was growling, but aggravation distracted him from the fact that he'd burned his bagel beyond recognition before having to dart out the door. He'd splashed through a puddle of filthy slush, leaving his ankle freezing cold and sopped; a quick stop to wipe down his shoes showed him that he'd left the Residence Inn wearing mismatched socks. _For fuck's sake_ …

Why?

Fitz mustered as much patience as he could, taking his cue from Ballard's wary look across the table. "It'd be nice to have a paper trail to add to the client's hard file, just to cover our collective backside? Just a thought."

Olivia sighed. The client's hard file was already three inches thick. Thank goodness the benefit booklets were electronic, thanks to OptforWellth's "paperless" delivery of the plan documents. It saved postage, it saved a tree, and typos or plan omissions could be fixed in the .pdf files with the click of a mouse. Hooray for technology.

"Not a problem. I'll get that to you as soon as I'm back at my desk." Olivia wasn't going to fiddle with it in the middle of the meeting, even if she was on her laptop. She hated the sound of other people "multi-tasking" in the background; it was hard enough to keep her own fingers away from her cell when it started vibrating in her pocket, promising more voicemail to answer between emails.

"So this should be pretty straightforward, then?" Mellie encouraged. "We sold preferred products? No need for legal input at this point?"

"The client gets thirty days to review. No comments from them means we go to press," Jake assured her. Olivia thought he sounded like a Boy Scout. Bless his heart.

"All right," Mellie chirped, perky as the Good Witch of the North. "Sounds great. I promise that shop talk's a no-no once we get to the brewery. Everybody put their calls on forward."

"You might as well ask us to chew off our right hands," Jake chuckled. There was a wave of quiet laughter in the background behind them. Olivia shook her head. She decided she could actually eat.

Mellie drove them to the restaurant; no surprise there. Olivia was grateful, despite the line of cars backed around the block with noon traffic. Mellie's car, a slick, black Porsche, rode smooth as butter, and her stereo filled the interior with bland classical music that soothed both women's nerves.

They bundled into the front lobby, and Olivia breathlessly gave the hostess their name.

"Party of fifteen, reserved for Roberts?" Olivia informed her. The hostess smiled.

"A few of your party have already showed up. This way."

Olivia and Mellie were similarly dressed in business black, but Olivia wore a snug periwinkle blouse sweater beneath her blazer instead of the gleaming white silk blouse Mellie favored. She wore her hair in a simple French braid that reached halfway down her back; soft tendrils framed her face and made her look more approachable than her boss.

Two rectangular tables were already set end to end. A handful of people in beige and grey work gear were divesting themselves of heavy coats and finding seats. Olivia's smile was already safely in place as Mellie hurried forward and began making introductions.

"It's good to put faces behind names! I'm Melody Roberts, your account manager!" Olivia sighed under her breath at the look of awe they wore when they met the attractive yet intimidating woman and shook her hand. Even during warm weather, Mellie's hands were cold as ice.

They eyed Olivia carefully, measuring her before making their hellos. Olivia's "nice to meet you, glad you made it" speech was automatic and easily repeated each time one of them pumped her hand off.

She'd already figured the tall guy with the well-cut brown hair and perfect teeth was Jake Ballard. He was as nice as he sounded on the phone.

"Great restaurant you picked out, Olivia. Even the bathrooms are nice!" he boasted. Olivia laughed.

"We aim to please." The table started to fill up. "Who are we missing?"

"Donald, our implementation rep."

"Donald who?"

"Pierce."

"Ah."

"He'll be running the demographics so we can send out the welcome letter to the members next week."

"Then he's my hero."

"He's sharp," Jake promised. "Fitz just got here a minute ago." Olivia frowned.

"Is he a member of the account management team for this client?"

"No. He's the broker."

"We spoke to the broker at the meeting about the rates," Olivia argued. "He introduced himself as Thomas."

"He does the same thing you do, sometimes he goes by his middle name with people he talks to on the phone, but he uses his first name on his emails. And he's over there at the bar. I told him we were going to take drink orders once everyone got here, but he wanted a soda." Jake pointed toward the long bar. The only person Olivia saw there had his back turned to them.

What a back it was. He was taller than she was, built like a linebacker, and filled out his dark brown suit like a Hugo Boss model. She saw him raise on hand as he beckoned to the server and heard his low voice ordering a Dr. Pepper.

His dark hair was thick and slightly ruffled by the wind outside, but he had a decent barber. Olivia enjoyed drinking in little details about him, like the no-nonsense silver watch he wore and the shape of his ears.

"A soda sounds too cold right now, I want something to warm me up."

"Coffee?" Jake offered. "I could order it for you if you're not ready to sit down?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no. Had my fill during the meeting." Jake grinned.

"My blood type's espresso. How about tea?"

"Herbal, if they have it," she nodded, pleased. He gave her arm a light squeeze and returned to the table as Olivia drifted to the bar.

The clamor of patrons and the clinking of glasses and silverware made it difficult to hear her own voice as she greeted him. "Hi. Jake told me you handled the sale."

"Pardon?" he muttered as he sat down the glass and turned to face his visitor.

He turned. She swallowed. Time stood still.

His eyes dilated and she caught the slight flare of his nostrils as his eyes roamed her face, then the rest of her. Disbelief and shock lingered between them as Olivia licked her lips. His eyes jerked toward her mouth with that gesture. Her stomach flipped.

"Better come sit down, it's like playing musical chairs! Come on, Fitz, some of us want to eat!" Jake turned to Olivia. "Olivia, I went ahead and ordered your tea."

"Thanks," she murmured weakly, sparing him the briefest of glances before he left.

Her body's response was immediate. She wanted, no, craved a chance to touch him, or to lean in and breathe in his scent. Did he still wear the same cologne?

He radiated heat and masculinity that made her cheeks flush.

"Carolyn?" he whispered.

"Oh, God." She didn't recognize her own voice.

Her hand rose to shake his hand. It was instinctive. It would have been bad form if she hadn't after all the greetings she'd offered a few minutes ago.

He looked confused.

"It's…nice to meet you, Thomas. I-I'm…"

He didn't let her finish. He took her hand with his left, curling her fingers around it and tugging her stiffly after him. She nearly stumbled as they made their way out of the main lounge.

 _What the heck just happened?_ Her sense of reason screamed.

 _Heck if I know._

Behind them, Mellie peered around the lounge, frowning. "Where did Carolyn go?"

"Carolyn?" Jake asked.

"Carolyn. Carolyn Pope, our underwriter."

"Oh, right! I've been calling her by Olivia. I figured that was her name?"

"Her middle name is Carolyn. I don't like Olivia, so I get to call her Carolyn." Mellie announced this like it was a special privilege.

"I love her autosignature in her messages! No one else uses purple font. It's cute." Mellie sniffed. She didn't find it impressive. Jake pondered what she'd said.

Why was the name Carolyn familiar to him?

For that matter, where did she go? Where the heck was Fitz? His soda was sweating forgotten on the bar.

He wasn't here. She wasn't here. That wasn't her hand, smooth and cool, gripped in his. "What are you doing, where are we going, what…?"

"Wait," he hissed. They hurried down the short corridor toward the rest rooms. Olivia heard hand dryers coming from the men's.

 _Is he out of his mind?_ He knocked on the door to the woman's and jerked open the handle. Before she could point out the obvious, he'd pulled her inside after him. She felt flutters of excitement and her pulse speed up when he punched the tiny lock in the knob.

"He looked determined as he faced her. "Come here."

"Wait…"

Her world turned itself inside-out when he pulled her against his broad, hard chest and crushed her mouth beneath his.

 _Good night_ …She tasted his soda and a remnant of coffee on his lips as she leaned into his kiss, following the smooth, slow slant of his mouth and the velvety stroke of his tongue. Fitz swallowed the low, desperate sounds she made as they shared breath and heat. In the back of his mind he remembered her throaty laughter and the sunset, her wicked red dress puddle on the floor and high-heeled sandals bouncing against his back.

His body confirmed that yes, this was Carolyn. Despite the tweedy blazer whose button gave way easily enough beneath his searching fingers, she felt like her. She smelled like her, and she definitely tasted like her.

They stumbled back until she collided with the hand dryer. They inadvertently punched the 'on' button, but its low, steamy roar didn't distract them from need.

"Fitz," she whimpered as his lips trailed hotly over her face, tasting her.

"God, Carolyn, oh God," he rasped into her ear as he suckled it. Her hands were greedy, kneading and caressing his back through his blazer and curling into his hair, so thick and satisfying to clutch.

His fingertips feathered over her abdomen, tracing her ribs once he freed her sweater from the waistband of her black skirt. She stole greedy kisses from him and toyed with the collar of his shirt. He groaned when she found his neck and lapped at his pulse.

Something cool and rough got in her way.

She stared with hazy brown eyes at the gold chain. The clasp was visible beside the St. Christopher medal.

"You can still make a wish," she murmured. He looked confused for a moment, then shook his head.

"Maybe I don't need to, babe," he told her, and she felt a rush of want run through her body at his knowing stroke of her breast through the satin of her bra.

 _This is crazy_. She didn't want to stop. She didn't want him to stop.

Similar questions were running through his own mind.

Why did she leave the hotel so abruptly? It was a one-nighter, he'd gotten the memo, but still…?

Olivia. Jake had introduced her as _Olivia_. Then who the hell was Carolyn?

She was bereft and surprised as he lowered the hem of her sweater and gently released her.

"Fitz?"

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, mastering his thoughts and catching his breath. He eyed her over his shoulder while he straightened his collar. His hair was a lost cause, but he didn't care. "You're Carolyn."

"Yeah."

"But you're Olivia." Her look said "get on with it, already".

"Sure. Olivia Pope."

"You work for OptforWellth. As an underwriter."

"As _the_ underwriter for the Shake 'n' Take account."

It dawned on him slowly, like a late morning hangover.

Weeks. He'd spent weeks talking to her back and forth in his email strings about _business_. Never a phone call until today. He'd had her location and last name for weeks. Known how she worked and communicated.

What made it worse was that she was the control freak, stick-up-her-ass underwriter who'd rained on his parade throughout the client's implementation from the moment they signed the dotted line.

"We're going to be late for lunch," he told her curtly.

"What?"

"Fix your hair. And your top."

"Wait…what just happened here?"

"A coincidence. One in a million." He stood gripping for the door handle. "Or two in a million, I guess." His look was appraising as he gave her a once-over again, taking in her sedate outfit and hair.

He wanted to mess her up, take down that braid and peel off her clothes. The Carolyn from the beach was wild and uninhibited; "Olivia" was too buttoned-up, too controlled and glossy for his taste.

It was a mind-fuck. Their encounter here was a tease.

Her own emotions began drifting over her lovely features. She straightened up and cleared her throat, buttoning her blazer and smoothing her hair.

"A suggestion."

"Name it, Ms. Pope." She gritted her teeth.

"Miss. I go by 'miss'."

"Nice of you to inform me."

 _Grrr…_ "You leave first. Be discreet."

"You're better at making speedy exits than I am."

She looked nonplussed. "Men like you invented them."

He felt the moment her guard went up. "Carolyn" died; he already grieved her.

He left. His posture was broad and took up space, and he walked with long, swift strides. Her own pace was more controlled and sedate.

Like Olivia herself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Guest: I'm glad you did read my bio!**

 **This chapter is up a little late. There will still be another update today.**

 _ **Slipping, Falling, Can't Get Up**_

Numbers. Stare at them long enough, and they made your eyes ache. Olivia was developing spreadsheet psychosis.

She sat back in her chair and kneaded her neck. Removing her reading glasses relieved the soreness across the bridge of her nose.

Her phone picked that moment to whine at her; she punched the hands-free button and muttered, "Underwriting, this is Carolyn?"

"Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed today."

"Both sides are the wrong side. I didn't want to get up, period."

"Grouch," Quinn accused. Her sigh was heavy. Olivia heard the sounds of children in the background. It sounded like she was calling her from her Mommy and Me playgroup. The buzz of Olivia's headache intensified, but she urged a smile into her voice. "Won't get much sympathy from me."

"Since when have I ever come knocking on your door for that?"

"Might be nice if you came knocking on my door more often. Wanted to see if you were still coming to my shindig."

"Pampered Chef?"

"Yep. Whole point is to come enjoy the food and the other women who show up. Bre already confirmed. I'm waiting for Monica to RSVP, too." Olivia perked up. She took a gulp of her coffee to wet her palate, savoring it even though it was only warmer than room temperature. Lunch was half an hour away.

"Who else?"

"Hannah was a no. She had some alumni thing to go to that Saturday. She said she started sending out wedding invitations, though, and that you should have gotten yours in the mail by now."

"I'll have to go back through my bill pile and make sure I didn't chuck it in there."

"Invitation's cute. Girly."

"Of course it is," Olivia said. She shook her head. _Never in a million years. Not this girl._

"She invited me to go dress shopping for the bridesmaid outfits. Ask her if you can go, too."

"I hate those shops. Too stuffy. I get so bored…"

"Speak now or forever hold your peace if she picks out something godawful, Olivia. Put in your two cents."

Olivia already knew this song and dance. The Bride had the Ring. Literally and Tolkien-ically speaking. Evil in the form of overpriced accessories and dyable shoes was afoot.

"And you didn't hear it from me," Quinn added slyly, lowering her voice, "but she might end up having the dress let out a little on that last fitting."

"Hold up…"

"Yep."

"Good night," Olivia muttered. "Say it isn't so."

"She told me she nearly had a heart attack."

"So we get to play her a baby shower right after the bridal shower."

"Are you kidding? I can't wait. Never mind the wedding, the baby's the fun part." Then Quinn scaled it back a notch. "But we'll get back to that. I'm getting ahead of myself." The women shared a silent moment, digesting their own thoughts.

Olivia finally said, "I'm excited. That'll be one beautiful baby."

"You've got that right. Everett's going to be grinning like a fool." Olivia chuckled.

"Let's see how she hides that booty now in that white dress once she starts to show. Bless her heart. All the preparations, blood, sweat, and tears she's putting into this, and it's going to end up being a shotgun wedding."

"That doesn't mean a _thang_ ," Quinn twanged. Olivia could visualize the neck roll she had no doubt gave her on the other end of the phone. "Twice as much to be happy about. It doesn't matter how you start your family, as long as it's blessed with two people who love each other."

"Still," Olivia prodded.

"Still," Quinn agreed, "that woman's a mess. Got morning sickness already."

"I don't miss that." Olivia's voice sounded faraway. Quinn bit back a hint of pity. Olivia didn't want it; she wouldn't throw it out there.

"Are you okay?"

"I'll let you know when I figure it out."

"We'll talk. Come to my party anyway, but seriously, you and me. We'll do something else soon. I'll leave the kids with my mom and we'll do coffee. I promise."

"Don't worry about me."

"I always worry about you."

"Uh-uh. You've already got my godchildren to give you gray hairs. Don't waste them on yours truly."

"I love you."

"I love you, too." Olivia fiddled with the phone cord.

Olivia was interrupted from saying anything else by a shriek so shrill it could cut glass in the background. "Jesus," Quinn grunted before crying out "You'd better GET DOWN from there! Uh-uh, don't make me come over there and snatch you baldheaded!" Despite Quinn's addiction to parenting books and suburban-style family activities, she took an old school approach to dealing with her kids when they acted up. A timeout was one thing, but she didn't waste time counting to three or even asking the question "what are you doing?" when she could just sneak up and catch them in the act. She was Olivia's hero.

"Are the heathens running amok?"

"They're running the asylum."

"I'm sitting here in my nice, warm, quiet office. Everything's all nice and neat…"

"Aw, hush."

Then Olivia heard a din of children's music over the phone, changing the noise in the background to low cheers and claps of approval.

Even after she gave up professional dancing, Quinn still ran a very successful dance school in the studio she'd had built behind her spacious home. It kept her fit and content, the kids loved her, and it gave her a connection to her own neighborhood that she couldn't live without.

Olivia pushed aside the melancholy veil that threatened to smother her. "It's good to hear your voice, Quinn. I'm going to go."

"Bet you're busy."

"I know you are."

"Come to my party, please. Please."

"That's fine. I'll be there. Let the girls know, okay?"

"Definitely."

"And hug the sweeties for me."

"I will. They can't wait for the real thing. They've been asking about Auntie Olivia all week."

"Are they excited to be flower girls?"

"Yep."

"All right. Sounds good. I'll let you go."

"Come hungry."

"I always do."

"Bye." Olivia cradled the handset and leaned back with a sigh. She tapped her pencil against her blotter and scanned her office for a distraction. It was too hard to focus on her work now.

Her work had other ideas.

 _Boop. Boop. Boop…_ her phone was at it again. "Underwriting, how can I help you?"

"I need you to come to the meeting, ASAP. Log on." Mellie sounded clipped.

"What meeting?"

"Check your email. I just sent it out ten minutes ago. I was waiting for you to accept it." Olivia was already diving into her email and found the most recent red flag.

 _URGENT: AMT Follow-Up Meeting at 11:30 AM; Please Respond._

"Why are we holding it?"

"More changes. Shake 'n' Take just added another eligibility group and a flex plan."

"Shit."

"Wrong attitude, Carolyn. We've got to roll with this. This is excellent. I'm sending you the sales figures now, you'll get the attachment in a second."

"What figures?" Olivia yelped. Sure enough, the tiny Outlook envelope flickered across her screen before her horrified eyes. "I didn't okay any figures!"

"We quoted them the same rates for this as we did for the core plan."

"And this is the first I've been told about it." Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears.

"Don't worry. Log on. We'll be filled in soon enough. And Carolyn, don't sound panicked. Go in with a smile, they'll hear it in your voice." Mellie waited for her response.

"Right. That's fine. Thank you." She fought the urge to bang the handset on her desk to make her manager's ears ring. Once she was off that call, she dialed into the teleconference, turned on the speaker, and set it to mute.

She waited for the first three of four voices to announce themselves, naming each one in her head. She recognized Jake easily enough, right off the bat. The deeper, older voice was slightly nasal but also familiar; she guessed it was Donald Pierce.

Mellie was next. "Okay, good morning!"

"It's practically lunch," Jake countered. He sounded sunny, as usual. Olivia sighed. She'd need more coffee or something stiffer to deal with this…

"Have we got everybody?" Mellie asked, ignoring him. Olivia shook her head.

"Donald here," the older voice confirmed. Olivia nodded, saluting the voice with her mug.

"Hello? This is Cyrus?" Olivia was unfamiliar with this one. Less nasal, but equally deep. For some reason, his voice gave her chills. "I'm working on the census for this account. I manage Eligibility."

 _Ahhhh…the ringmaster of this little circus. Nice._

"I didn't see your name on the email," Mellie explained.

"Beene. Cyrus."

"Oh. Got it."

"I deal in lives, what can I say? I'm managing another three hundred for the renewal." He sounded smug. "The more, the merrier." Olivia rolled her eyes.

"Where's Carolyn?" Mellie said, sounding irritated. So much for hearing a smile in her voice…

"Here," Olivia piped up. "Listen, could you give me a quick moment?" She placed her own phone on mute and hurried from her desk before anyone could protest.

"Carolyn? Carolyn? Are you there?"

No. She wasn't there. She was anywhere but here…

Olivia hurried to the small kitchenette in the next suite and cursed at the last fifth of a pot of coffee. It smelled burnt; nevertheless, she emptied the carafe into her cup and grabbed a red stirrer, two whiteners and two sugars. Beggars couldn't be choosers.

The first sip back at her desk made her wish she hadn't. "Bleah!"

"Carolyn?" Mellie called again. "Are you there?"

"Here." She wanted to scrape the taste off her tongue, but settled for dumping in the condiments. It blanketed some of the bitterness. Lunch felt like it was eons away.

"Great! Let's get settled. Hi, Carolyn!" Chipper Jake. Bless his heart.

"Hi. Good to see you." What was she saying? It was a conference call.

"I know this is abrupt, but we added the new plan out on the database. Attachments can be found there. Let me know if you didn't get them on the meeting announcement along with the agenda."

"Marie sent them. She has them," Mellie told him. Mellie's personal assistant was the most overworked woman in the building. At her desk, she was under Mellie's thumb. In the break room by the water cooler, though, her dominant personality came out in fine form. Marie delivered rants and one-liners like she was playing the weekend show at Caesar's.

"Which product did we sell again?"

"An Option Plus. In and out of network, high deductible with one hundred percent wellness."

"Their employees are going to hate that plan," Olivia muttered under her breath. She took the mute button off her phone and spoke aloud. "Sounds cost effective."

"They didn't want a gatekeeper plan. It's nice to have flexibility."

"Same eligibility date on the policy?"

"Yes. Retroactive effective to January first for new hires. No preexisting condition exclusion, and they can add late for qualifying events."

"Nice and clean," Olivia remarked. Good. At least that part was uncomplicated.

"Clean as a whistle." Jake's voice was suddenly cut off by another click on the line. "Hello?"

"I'm here," rasped a voice Olivia didn't want to hear. Hot prickles washed over her as she remembered her recent indiscretion.

 _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

His emails had become the bane of her existence. Too many of them had important action dates, so she couldn't delete them…yet. Olivia fantasized about printing them and lighting the whole heap up in a bonfire so she could toast marshmallows.

She took small, ugly satisfaction in the fact that he showed up later to the conference than she did. _Take THAT._

"Better late than never," Cyrus remarked. Olivia wanted to clap.

"My laptop died. I'm at a guest desk right now."

"Where are you, Thomas?" Mellie wanted to know.

"Cambridge. But I'm due out your way pretty soon for that training seminar."

"Wonderful!" His announcement hit Olivia like icy water. She choked on her coffee, sputtering.

"Um…who's that coughing up a lung?"

"Ack," Olivia gasped, whacking her chest with her fist as she caught her breath.

"Carolyn?" Mellie said cautiously. Her tone was plain: Don't embarrass me.

"Sorry…hoo. Wow. My coffee had bones in it," she joked, using her mother's favorite phrase.

"Next time, might want to go to Starbucks, eh?" She heard the smirk in his voice and wanted to smack him. "Or just get your caffeine in an IV so you won't have to worry about feeding yourself."

"Works for you," Jake tossed back. Shared snickers in the background among the other participants rubbed Olivia the wrong way. But it made her continue to like Jake.

"Won't that be something. Training. I'd forgotten about that," Mellie mused. Olivia could hear her silently planning to take Marie to task for not drawing her attention to it sooner. Olivia was kicking herself as it was; the announcements for the training coming up in two weeks were laddered neatly in her inbox, but she hadn't opened any of them to notice the name "Grant, Fitzgerald" in the "CC" field. Shit.

"Can't wait," Fitz offered politely, even though Olivia knew he wasn't any more enthused than she was. Project management training sucked. Thank goodness it wasn't any more often than once a year. Mellie was a Six Sigma black belt.

The rest of the meeting was relatively painless until they got ready to wrap up.

"So Carolyn, are you going to send out an updated rate sheet?"

"Already done," Olivia informed him. She'd spent the rest of the call on mute and typed her fingers off, fixing the newest copy of the spreadsheet and hitting send. "There you go."

"Got it! Way to multitask, Pope!" Jake cheered. Olivia snickered.

"Who did you send it to?" Fitz prodded.

"Everyone here, and the admin at Shake 'n' Take as a heads-up."

"Whoa, whoa," he said. "Back up a sec. There are a few other folks who need it. Don't jump the gun. Here. I'm sending you the distribution of who you need to copy on this."

"Who else? Their admin is the one we've been dealing with for any hard copies! She's also handling the distribution to the employees when we go to print."

"Their CEO, COO, VP, and legal department."

"Legal?" she squeaked. "This is a simple addition to what we already sold! Same language, almost identical plan, just more of the same demographics."

"They want Legal looking at it before they sign off."

"That's not what you told us before."

"The customer's always right. And the customer wants their legal team to have thirty days to review the drafts, with an extension if they have a lot of changes…"

"Are they expecting to have a lot of changes?" Mellie interjected. Olivia felt a migraine brewing in her temples and jerked open her desk drawer. Two chalky extra strength Tylenol found their way down her throat, chased by more of the foul old coffee.

"This is a sensitive group," Fitz supplied. "So we're giving them the velvet glove treatment until we go to print. So you're going to send out those rates to the names I sent, Carolyn?" Olivia almost forgot he was talking to her.

He used her nickname. The setting and situation felt wrong. He'd groaned it in her ear so many times in the silence of his hotel room…

No. Stay focused, Pope.

"I'll get on that," Olivia replied in her can-do voice. She pasted the names from his email into a new message and reattached the sheet with new narrative. She hated resending anything, since it added to confusion.

It was only after she hit send on her corrected draft that she noticed his message to her was still open.

 _Try to get everybody in the distribution the first time around if you can. No sense in confusing anyone with too many drafts. Next time, ask who else needs to be copied in, eh?_

Ohhh, she wanted to kill him. Slowly.

Two days later, Fitz bit into his BLT, leaning over his plate to catch the toast crumbs and stray tomato seeds. His apartment smelled like Clorox, his laundry was done and put away, and the voicemails on his machine read zero.

The boxes in his front hall mocked him. He still needed to go to Goodwill.

He was just settling down to read the funnies in the _Boston Globe_ when his phone trilled from the kitchen. He chucked the sandwich aside and brushed crumbs from the corners of his mouth. He managed an ungarbled "Hello?" once he managed to swallow the bacon and dry bread.

"Hey, Fitz. It's Ed."

"Hey." Fitz leaned against the fridge. "What's going on?"

"Did you get my messages?"

"Last one I opened was the one with the pictures."

"I sent a few more since."

"Guess I haven't been online much." That was a lie. Ed's heavy sigh was proof that he didn't believe it, either.

"Dad said he hasn't talked to you lately, either."

"Dad hasn't called me. There you have it."

"Fitz, he's lonely. Give him a call sometime, for crying out loud! He's getting old."

Fitz fiddled with a magnet on his fridge idly. Shame pricked at him. "Haven't had a lot to talk about lately. Same old, same old. I haven't got a lot to tell him."

"You've been back from your trip."

"Sent him that t-shirt."

"He said it was a little too big. Dad's lost weight." Guilt pangs gnawed at Fitz.

"Maybe I can trade it to him for mine. Haven't even worn it yet."

"Good. Go see him and give it to him." Ed's voice was matter-of-fact.

"I'm in the middle of a lot of shit right now."

"Make time."

"When's the last time you saw dad yourself?"

"Last week." Strike one.

Change the subject. "How are the kids?"

"Bray and Addison are fine. They keep asking when Uncle Fitz is coming to visit." Strike two.

"Sold any cars this month?"

"Just two at the dealership."

"At the dealership? Why? What other cars would you have had to sell?"

"I got ten thousand for the Brougham."

The phone hit the linoleum with a thunk. Fitz reeled and broke out in a cold sweat.

His brother's voice nagged him from the floor while he got his bearings. Fitz sank down onto his haunches inch by inch, letting the news sink in. _Mother_ _ **fucker.**_

He picked up the handset unsteadily. "You can't be fucking serious, Ed. What the fuck."

"I got ten thousand. Why can't I be serious?"

"You can't…you can't just…"

"I can and I did. I sold it, Fitz. Dad said it was fine."

"Well, it's not fine. It's not fucking fine. Dad was wrong."

"Dad said he didn't have any room in his driveway when anyone comes to see him. Give him a fucking break, Fitz."

"That's no excuse. That's not your reason or Dad's reason for getting rid of that car. Do you have any idea what you've done? Do you?"

"Yeah. I did it for dad. I did it because he asked. Because I'm his son and I care about him. I did it because it was hard for him to see that car outside on those rare days when he gets out of the house."

"You're such a good son," Fitz snarled. His skull felt like it would split in half. His blood throbbed in his veins and he could hear his pulse.

"That's not why I did it." Ed was at the end of his patience. The Grant family temper was rearing its ugly head. "You selfish son of a bitch. Where do you get off? Huh?"

"If dad needed money, I could have sent him money!"

"It wasn't about the money! Get it through your skull. It was about mom. It's always going to be about mom." There was a charged pause between them. Fitz's breath was thick, he was scarcely able to force any out of his lungs.

Ed heard the change in his breathing. "Fitz?"

"That all you had to call about?"

"I just wanted to tell you –"

"You told me. Fine. Bye." He punched the End button and flicked the phone away, letting it skid across the floor. The linoleum felt cold against his ass as he leaned back against his refrigerator and let his thoughts swim through his head.

Another piece of her was gone.

"You had not right," Fitz whispered. "You had…no…right."

All he needed was a minute. The silence of his kitchen seemed to hum and close in on him. Fitz rubbed his face and combed his fingers through his hair. Once he centered himself, he was in his hallway in five brisk steps.

The boxes loomed by the door, still unpacked and untouched.

An X-Acto blade found its way into his hand. He slashed the broad strip of cracked, brown packing tape with a loud, satisfying rip, repeating the process with the other three.

Minutes later, he was spread out on the floor, surrounded by possessions and memories he didn't want.

He set Jane's short note aside, written in her girlish script. _Thought you might want to go through some of these things again. I just wasn't sure. I didn't want you to miss anything. – Jane_

 _PS. Leave space in your calendar to do something this summer. We're thinking about heading to Provincetown when the kids are off for break._

The more he sifted through the crates, the more his anger at Ed waned.

Sure. Why would his dad want the car?

How wouldn't it have stabbed him in the fucking heart every time he looked at it?

How wouldn't he have felt raw and empty and ripped open?

Numbly Fitz popped open the small velvet box. Hannah's solitaire and band winked at him. He clapped it shut again and shivered, thrusting it back in the crate as though it burned him.

There were some clothes and a few other little trinkets. Jane included a mini photo album of pictures he didn't recognize as any he had taken of her; he was surprised that Jane didn't keep it.

Books. Craft items, including three skeins of untouched yarn and six crochet hooks. Women's magazines. A pair of chenille bedroom slippers. A travel case for Hannah's cosmetics. Fitz unzipped it and pulled out a one-ounce bottle of Claiborne. He opened the stopper, and its strong floral brought back a flood of memories in one breath.

He was drowning…

He shoved it back into the case, threw it back into the crate. The silence around him buzzed and hummed again, tormenting him. Fitz hurled himself down the hall to the bathroom.

He wretched, doubled over and leaning his head against the cold porcelain. His voice was clogged and harsh.

It was too damned soon. Too much, too soon. Why didn't God and fate and the rest of the fucking universe understand that?

He flushed and flicked on the shower, not caring that it was his second of the day. He didn't care that the spray that escaped the curtain wet his clothes when he left them on the floor.

Steaming water poured over him, running in long runnels from his hair while he leaned against the tile.

"Why, God?" he said. The water didn't answer him, and it didn't carry his troubles down the drain. He pounded the wall, hearing it echo.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Warranty**_

"I never wanted to get married as a kid."

"You didn't, huh?"

"Nope. No marriage for me. I wanted to work for a living straight out of the gate."

"You can get married and still work. Almost can't not work, these days, no matter who you marry."

"I know, I know. Falling in love I didn't mind, but not being a soccer mom. Or a domestic goddess, a la Roseanne."

"It doesn't have to be like that. Shoot, you don't have to find Ward Cleaver and start vacuuming your house in a twinset and pearls."

" _snort_ "

"Well, you don't."

"Thank the good Lord and all of his angels. Ward Cleaver…eek."

"I always kind of had high hopes. I just wanted to find that one perfect man who thought I was his _everything_."

"You're dreaming awfully big."

"Baloney. Smack your own mouth." Anya slid her glasses to the end of her nose and cut her eyes at her best friend over the rims. It was her patented "don't mess with me" look. Olivia was the rare friend she allowed to defy that look. Mock it, even.

"I'm not saying there isn't a man out there who thinks you're his _'everything',_ woman. I'm just saying…what do you even want to do with him once you find him?"

"What do you think?"

"Anya…marriage _sucks_."

"You don't have enough material to write that book, yet."

"I've got enough for a manuscript that reads like _Gone with the Wind_." She kept her attention on the road. Olivia loathed rush hour traffic on the freeway. The rental car that she and Anya split the tab for had GPS but they were edged off the ramp two exits too soon. In the meantime, they were picking at cooling McDonald's leftovers and scanning through Sirius channels for some decent adult R &B.

"I just get envious when I see people really looking like they're in love. I'm not talking about making out in public. I mean those couples who just seem well put together. None of that insecure shit."

"My mom and dad managed okay."

"Your folks were nice. I liked hanging out at your place."

"You liked mom's Russian tea cakes and marshmallow cocoa."

"That, too. But I mean it, when I get married, I want what your folks had."

"Gas?"

"Ew…no! You're nasty."

"I'm serious! What is it about getting older that gives people gas? Mom kept the Beano in the spice cabinet." Olivia merged into traffic just as the stream of cars crawled to a near-halt. "It's just…marriage should come with a disclaimer or warning."

"Yeah. Maybe it should."

"Customer satisfaction not guaranteed. Consumer takes responsibility for the use of this product."

"And there should be a penalty for ripping off the little tag."

"Too bad there isn't a fifty-year warranty that includes loss protection."

Anya warmed to the topic. "Loss of sanity? Loss of libido? Loss of memory for conveniently forgetting a weekend trip to your parents?"

"Sure. Plus damage insurance that covers neglect and abandonment." Olivia punched the menu choice for the station she wanted. The station description onscreen promised R&B but gave them Kelly Clarkson. Good enough. Anya sang along with gusto while Olivia brooded behind the wheel.

They began to play a game Olivia came up with as a kid, reading the road signs.

"Framingham. Two a's."

"Two m's. What else have you got?"

"Give me another few miles." It wasn't Slug Bug, but it passed the time between pit stops.

Hannah Adams was one of their acquaintances that insinuated her way into their lives before either of them could object. There was nothing she loved more than a captive audience for boyfriends, clothes, and social climbing.

She was always "just so". Hair just high enough, lipstick just dark enough, skirt just short enough without going overboard. She liked men with money. She didn't have the patience to put up with a relationship that didn't progress past several weeks of decent sex. Once the conversation ran out, so did her patience. Dates that ended with "I'll call you" were met with indifference, or even "Actually, I'm going to be pretty busy for a while…"

Yet she found the man she'd call back. Hell, he was the one she'd wake up to every morning for the next ten to fifty years, if she bought the extended warranty.

And Everett was a sweetie. Anya pretended to wipe away drool after Hannah introduced him to her girlfriends. They made a pretty couple, both light-eyed and athletically built and tall. They'd make pretty babies, and the bride would make just as big a fuss over her baby shower as she would over her bachelorette.

They took the exit they wanted and merged badly into traffic that wanted to be rush hour. All the streets looked the same, but Olivia took the left turn at the strip mall intersection and then turned right into a picturesque subdivision.

"Not bad. Girl must have paid through the nose for a yard this big."

"She lives on a corner. Her yard is one of the biggest."

"Cow."

"There it is." Anya let her glasses slide down to the end of her nose, and her mouth hung open in shock.

"Hello, McMansion."

Of course it was perfect. Even the snow piled thickly over her lawn was well-groomed, no muddy slush or dog pee in sight. She'd already taken down her Christmas lights, but there was a tiny sign over the door wishing guests a Happy New Year. Olivia parked the rental car, fiddling with the sticky safety brake. There were two other cars parked out front.

"Brrrrr. Too damned cold for this southern gal."

"Wuss."

"Kiss my fat one." They hurried up the front walk, well-shoveled and salted, and Anya punched the doorbell. "Come on and let us in," she said, stomping her feet and rubbing her hands.

They heard a commotion behind the door and a break in conversation inside. Hannah's voice proclaimed "yay, they're here!" before the door was jerked open.

"Come in before you let out the heat!" Anya chuckled.

"How was your trip?" Alison corrected from over her shoulder. Hannah already had Olivia wrapped in a brisk hug, air-kissing her cheek. The hallway felt toasty-warm, thawing the chill from her flesh.

"Uneventful."

"Good. Let's see if we can bat a thousand."

"Traffic already kind of sucks."

"We're going to car pool as best as we can. More than likely, we're going to pack ourselves like sardines into my car." Hannah never even tried to sell her Suburban, despite the gas crunch. It was simply too comfortable, and of course, it was the only car that her huge house didn't dwarf from the street.

"Beats my old ride," Anya mused. "That was like watching a whole mess of clowns showing up under the big top." Olivia laughed. She was right. Even though Anya's tiny Beetle was in great shape, it was comical seeing how many of their friends they could pile into it on their way to the clubs on Thursday nights. Alison was the shortest, and frequently ended up giving any lucky soul sitting in the back seat a lap dance.

"First things first: Where is your bathroom?"

"Down yonder," Alison told them. "Down the hall to the left. Just follow the smell of potpourri."

Olivia chuckled approvingly as she looked around the living room, taking in the furnishings. "That's new," she said, nodding to an art print.

"Everett's mom gave me that. I paid to have it framed myself."

"She has good taste."

"I know. I'm jealous of her place."

"You shouldn't be. Look at how nice this is!"

"Thanks. We do all right."

"Just wait until you have some rugrats. You'll have to move that stuff up sky-high," Quinn warned her. Hannah had a varied assortment of knick-knacks on side tables, window sills, and shelves. Hannah grinned and rolled her eyes. Her hand reflexively covered her stomach.

"Whoa, hold on, let me get a look at that!" Olivia tsked and shook her head. The theatrics had begun.

They all clucked like hens, taking a turn patting her tummy, which was barely rounded, definitely not enough to raise suspicion at first glance. But she was radiant.

"How's Everett doing with all this?"

"He's got cold feet about going to the altar, but he's all over himself about this baby."

"So give him some socks," Alison snapped. "Or tell him you have half a dozen girlfriends training shotguns on his butt if he takes too long saying 'I do'."

"For some guys that isn't a threat. Sure wasn't for my last ex," Elena complained sourly.

"No shit," Paige agreed, holding up her hand for a high five. Elena met her there with a sharp smack. "See Dick run. Run, Dick, run."

"Gads," Alison sighed.

Four more trips to the bathroom later, they all bundled themselves into thick coats, then into Hannah's black SUV.

The clerk at the bridal shop was already smiling expectantly as they filed inside.

"Reservation for Adams?"

"Fitting?"

"Not yet. I'm still choosing the dress. I have it narrowed down to these." Hannah handed her a small folio. There were six pages inside showing the gowns she was considering, along with swatches of fabric for possible bridesmaids gowns.

"Get ready to play dress up, girl," Anya told her.

"I hate changing room mirrors."

"Let us be your mirrors."

She made her way into the changing suite while the others got comfortable, shucking coats and gloves in the warm shop. The clerk offered them coffee and mints.

"I know this will never be me," Alison sighed, "but I love these stores. I wouldn't mind working in one. Look at all this stuff." She fingered a green taffeta sheath hanging on a nearby rack.

"I know. It's just like hanging out in your grandmother's attic, trying on old clothes in her trunks."

"Not my grandma." Elena looked doubtful. "Her attic was a mess. Nothing but dime store romances with Fabio on the cover, her needlepoint junk, and some old baby clothes. She had a little sailor suit for my dad. I'm just grateful I didn't have to wear it as a kid."

"Bet it was cute," Paige prodded.

They heard a rustling of raw silk approaching them, followed by Hannah's voice. It sounded unconfident, completely unlike her.

"Okay…what do you think? Be honest."

"Oh."

"My."

"God."

"Hubba HUBBA."

The only person in the room whose mouth wasn't hanging open was the clerk's. "Okay, then. Size eight in that for you, sweetie?"

"Wrap it up," Hannah agreed. They didn't need to see the others; it didn't hurt that she felt too bloated to want to try on another gown.

"Poor Everett," Paige muttered. "Boy'll never know what hit him." The clerk fetched a sample veil to try on with it and a pair of gloves to complete the image.

Olivia moved away from her friends and lost herself in her own thoughts. She thumbed through the thick catalogs on the counter without really looking at the clothes and jewels inside.

She just wasn't there anymore. It just wasn't _her_ anymore. Her happy glow was beginning to fade.

Suddenly she wanted out. Even the freezing chill outdoors was a welcome change from the discussion of hotel reservations and place settings.

But this is what she came here for. These were her sisters from different misters. It was just so hard. Olivia's own experience walking this road soured her. She wouldn't let her mood infect the excitement wrapped around everyone in that room.

Elena sidled up to her, leaning her cheek against Olivia's sleeve like a needy puppy. The tall girl was a study in contrasts next to her small friend, standing five-eleven in her bare feet. Her pretty complexion was creamy and fair and she had her glossy black hair razor-cut in a spiky little boy cut that made the most of her delicate features.

"What are you doing?" she implored.

"Nothing. Looking at the pretty things."

"Oooooh. Pretty thiiiiiiings..." Elena purred, flipping a page of the book Olivia was reading. "Why so down?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay. I believe you." Elena gave her a one-armed hug that said otherwise. "Talk later?"

"Later."

"Okay."

The bridesmaids gowns were another matter altogether. The clerk had her job cut out for her as she brought out the samples. Some were rejected before she even took them off the rack.

"Please tell me those aren't sequins."

"Anything but fuchsia."

"Geez…the shoulder pads are straight out of an eighties movie."

Each woman took their turn on the hot seat, narrowing their selections down to three.

"This maid of honor dress matches mine," Hannah reasoned. "All we need is a color."

"The plum!" Alison insisted, waving the dress on its hanger.

"I second that," Paige added.

"Me, three," Olivia said, resigned. She didn't want to express her preference for the teal. It wasn't her day, and Hannah was looking relieved.

"I looked cute in the gold," Elena complained.

"You looked adorable, chica, but we need one color that I can plan a color theme around. Plum it is."

"No scary bolero jackets," Elena cut in. "No one will wear them again."

"They make me look like Frankenstein," Olivia said. She shuttered.

They met Bre for lunch later and chatted and cackled about old times over the pasta special at Olive Garden. Olivia once again felt comfortable and happy.

Until Bre opened her mouth.

"So whatever happened with that guy?"

"Huh?"

"The one you met on your vacation. He ever catch up with you?"

"Oooooo," Elena hooted, agog. "What's up with that? This is the first time I heard about any man on any vacation!"

"I never gave him my number," Olivia offered to put them off. But she was blushing ten shades of red.

"So why are you acting guilty? Spill!" All eyes were on her now; even Hannah sat there with her arms folded across her chest. She looked smug.

"I want to hear all about this. What's his name?"

"It doesn't matter –"

"Like heck it doesn't."

"Oh…whatever. His name's Fitz." Then she recanted. "Thomas, actually."

"Wait, which is it?"

"Fitz. But he likes Thomas."

"Mmmmm. I like both. But Fitz…that sounds mysterious. Like someone you sneak away from a party with to go make out in the car." Elena stirred her soda with a dreamy expression.

"Damn, girl…last time I invite you to a party!" Paige teased. The other patrons stared at the gaggle of women laughing and cheering.

"Just when I thought it couldn't get worse…" Olivia muttered under her breath.

"Did you give him your digits?" Alison asked.

"No. Just…no. Nothing else happened."

"But something DID happen, right?"

"Maybe…"

"You. Crazy. Bitch. You didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"You DID!"

"It was a mistake. Granted, a fun mistake –" Elena cut her off.

"Mistake, nothing. Bring it on. That's the end of a dry spell."

"No. Still pretty dry."

"So no digits?"

"Uh-uh. Not even."

"He didn't offer to stay in touch?"

"I didn't give him the chance."

"Hold up. Dine and dash?" Quinn was aghast.

"It sounds nasty when you put it that way," Olivia tsked.

"Nothing wrong with nasty," Alison pointed out. There was a momentary hush as their server brought their dishes of mousse and tiramisu.

"So that's it?" Elena said before taking a bite of her dessert.

"That's it."

Olivia was bursting.

It was insane. The burden of her encounter – her reunion – with him in the bathroom was trying to claw its way out. Bre watched her knowingly, stabbing her fork into the tiramisu.

"Nothing to tell," she finally lied. "Vacation's over."

Training Day.

Too bad it didn't involve Denzel in a black leather jacket smocking cigars and smacking people around, Olivia grumbled to herself. Management training sucked.

The big guy in the Stacy Adams shoes sounded slick as a used car salesman. Olivia didn't recognize him, but Mellie's smile was unnecessarily bright when she found herself and Olivia a seat in the back of the conference room. She felt like she was trapped in ninth grade geometry again and like her boss was going to ask her for gum and pass notes.

Olivia got up and fetched each of them an information packet and work folder. While she was drilling two pencils in the automatic sharpener Mellie's admin thoughtfully remembered, she watched the room begin to fill. No one else looked any more enthusiastic than she did, except for Jake. She was pleased to see him arrive so early. He caught her eye and hurried over with a broad grin.

"Now it's a party!"

"Good morning."

"Good morning to you," he said, saluting her.

 _Dang. Just like a walking Colgate ad._ But she liked him. It was nice to have someone on the account who knew how to laugh.

"Glad you're here with bells on."

"Too late in the season. Last month I would've worn a pair of antlers my ex gave me last Christmas, though."

"Those aren't business casual," she pointed out.

"Did they bring any hand puppets?" he muttered, leaning in conspiratorially as they both watched their trainer assemble his laptop. Instead of the standard "Hello. My name is…" tag stuck to him, he wore an employee badge from OptforWellth's sister branch, WellthyLiving, that announced him as James J.

"They'd have to figure out which cost center to charge the hand puppets to."

"Not if they hire them as contractors."

"We don't outsource much."

"Hey, that's an expense report you don't have to submit from your own desk."

"Thank the good Lord."

Jake joined his own department toward the front of the room. Olivia contemplated following him, but remained close to Mellie for appearances' sake. She almost regretted it; they were shortly joined by Cassandra, a director of sales from their Florida branch; Haley, an account manager with a tendency to sell nothing but flex plans before consulting the regulatory team; and Theresa, Cassandra's assistant. The next three hours promised to be tedious.

James's voice boomed, waking everyone in the room.

"I'm going to get this moving along. You've all received your information packets for this seminar; if you're sitting here, your HR managers enrolled you for Project Management Measurement Goals." He gave them a serpentine smile. "Not basketweaving." Nervous chuckles answered him. Olivia groaned and sipped her coffee. Jake caught her eye and winked.

"So, let's make a few introductions." Olivia almost thought he was going to have them play show-and-tell, making them stand up and name themselves and their roles.

"This," he said, gesturing, "is a laptop. This is your best friend."

Okay, so she was wrong.

"It's a helpful tool. Why? Because it stores information. What else?" They all stared at him for a moment. "Anyone?"

Theresa nervously raised her hand. "Um…it has a …calendar?"

"Yes!" he emphasized. "That's what I like to hear! Anyone else? Who here knows how to use Outlook?" Everyone assembled stared at each other and began to raise their hands. "All right. PowerPoint?" More hands stayed in the air. "Microsoft Project?"

Fewer hands. "Okay. Not too many." He logged on at the prompt and they watched him wave the cursor around the screen, clearly enjoying himself. "Programs like that are useful because they provide a schedule. A set of deliverables to meet in a certain timeframe, if you will…"

And so it went. Boredom gnawed at Olivia. It wasn't the fault at the presenter, even though James's voice began to drone at times. He had an extensive career background in business training and recruiting prior to founding his own corporation, Jackson Industries. It cost OptforWellth a lot of money to get him to step down from the mountain, board a plane, and play with his laptop for their benefit.

"Take a look at the needs of the customer. Do you have the time to meet their deliverable? Do you have the data gathered and analyzed in a timely manner to set an action plan? Have you kept those deliverables consistent with each client?"

 _Blah blah blah. Blah blah blah. Blahblahblahblahblahblah-blah._

Olivia's toes began to cramp inside her good brown pumps. The conference room was comfortably warm when they first arrived, but it was starting to feel stuffy.

"So what are our goals? Okay, let me toss a few of them up here…" He began writing furiously on his large whiteboard with a bright red marker in large, slashing script. "First, we _measure_ performance. Then, we _analyze_ opportunity, namely a chance to build ourselves up with the customer and show them, hey…what ELSE can we do? What ELSE can we sell them? It's important to use your past successes to put the hook in them. Then, show them how you'll _improve_ performance, and eventually, _control_ performance…"

Olivia's stomach began growling. She was ready to gnaw off her own foot. Mellie was beside her, furiously taking notes on her Blackberry. She nudged Olivia impatiently. "Write this down! It's useful."

Olivia was about to argue the point with her but missed the opportunity. The door behind them creaked slightly as someone swung it open and rushed inside. The faint rush of fresh air woke Olivia up, and the familiar, masculine voice sent a shiver down her spine.

"Is, uh, this is the conference for the Project Management class?" She turned furtively to watch him.

He wasn't rumpled. She was impressed. His suit was crisply pressed and his hair was neat. His shoes weren't damp with mud or slush, telling her he'd probably commuted in winter boots and changed when he came inside, like she had.

He was too orderly. She longed to yank his tie askew, muss his hair, anything to do away with the "safe" look he wore.

His eyes were the dead giveaway. They were full of rich, decadent trouble. And his mouth. He smiled slightly, but it wasn't an "aw, shucks" look of contrition. He wasn't sorry he interrupted; he just wanted to know if he had the correct room.

"Project Management Measurement Goals." James's smile was full of curdled butter. "On that sign. Behind you."

"All these rooms look alike. You see one group of folks with name tags, you've seen them all." Olivia smothered a laugh right in the middle of her gulp of coffee; she felt the caffeine back its way up into her sinus. She wasn't the only one; several uncomfortable titers greeted his announcement. Nonplussed, Fitzgerald Grant scanned the room, slowly descending the arena-style steps and looking for an empty seat.

Right on the aisle.

Right next to Olivia.

She had already turned back to her notes, or what passed as notes. She'd scrawled a few bits and pieces of info from the PowerPoint slides on her pad. She felt firm footsteps echo and stop beside her and someone setting down a briefcase with a light thud.

Cologne. Crisp, cool and heady, mingled with the scent of wool and leather.

The empty space next to her was replaced by a brush of a sleeve against hers that made her pulse jump.

Warm. Solid. He seemed to take up all the space around them. "Hope you ladies don't mind," he rumbled in that voice, low and guarded. James had already lost interest in him and was back to his presentation, highlighting action words on the slides with each click of his pointer.

"Not at all," Mellie promised with a tight little smile, before she, too, ignored him. Haley and Theresa merely looked annoyed.

 _What about me? What if I mind?_ Olivia's stomach was doing little flip-flops.

It was killing him.

He should have just heeded Jake's suggestion to continue on to the seminar without his laptop, but he didn't want to sit there shuffling paper handouts in that cramped little room. So he ran late – again – and ended up being held up at the visitor's desk to get a temporary badge and sign in. So there Ballard was, hanging out down in front with a couple of other guys from Accounting, cool as a clam, while Fitz was faced with a quandary.

Stand around scanning the room for any other seat next to a stranger, or hunker down next to the best one night stand he'd ever had, who, oh, by the way, hated him.

She was patently ignoring him at first glance. Her eyes darted over him briefly as he sat down, then flicked back to the front of the room. She hadn't diverted herself from the presentation since he'd sat down.

The thought occurred to him that she was a good actress. The slides and the speaker were boring him to tears.

She was ignoring him, all right. _Bitch._

Restlessness set in. Without realizing it, she began tapping her pencil lightly against the edge of her desk.

Fitz sighed. "Quit it."

"Pfft…" She barely even looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were haughty.

Her makeup was too stern, eye shadow that women's magazines called "natural" and blush that she didn't even need. And her hair…it was an injustice.

A French roll. She pinned up that mass of gorgeous thick hair in a style meant to neuter rather than flatter. He couldn't even benefit from seeing the line of her throat in the turtleneck sweater she wore. She had on reading glasses that he didn't even know she needed up until then.

In her navy blue pants suit, she was almost sterile. Brittle. He hated it.

She resented him. She didn't care if she was annoying him at that point. Finesse the client without her go-ahead on the rates, would he? She paused, then tapped some more. The sound kept her awake…

He'd had it. His finger and thumb deftly flicked the pencil from her grip.

 _Oops…_ Okay, so it got away from him.

She stared directly into his face. Too bad it was to glare at him. She looked like a pissed-off librarian.

"Sorry."

"Bullshit," she hissed under her breath.

"Ssshhhh…" Mellie made impatient waving gestures for them to zip lip. Olivia felt like achild sent to the naughty corner.

 _But he started it…_

She fumed silently, occasionally stealing snatches of looks at him from the corner of her eye.

On the one hand, he had nerve.

On the other hand…she could feign the excuse that now she didn't have to take stupid notes about the stupid training presentation.

Then again…

"Pick it up," she hissed under her breath.

"Make me."

"You threw it down there. _You_ go get it."

"Uh-uh."

She jerked her head around to face him, and her glasses slipped past her nose slightly. Her eyes were ice hard. He took childish joy in seeing her riled up.

"Do you always just rob people of their writing tools during important meetings?"

"One, Sunshine, it isn't a meeting. Two, I didn't rob you. Three, I flicked the pencil. I didn't throw it. And your tapping was driving me nuts." They were murmuring at a low buzz.

"Shhh!"

"Er, is there a problem up there? Can I continue down here? There were a few more areas I wanted to cover before we break for lunch?" James's thick, dark brow arched their way. Mellie's head swiveled around, snakelike, and she pinned them with a cold stare.

"Do you mind?" she whispered. She was embarrassed, her posture shouting "My associates won't embarrass me in front of Mr. High and Mighty Corporate Trainer."

"Are we fine?" James asked.

Olivia nodded and smiled, cheeks burning, and she slid her glasses back up. Fitz ducked his head and hid his smile.

Olivia smelled mint moments later and heard the slow tear of paper. Fitz unrolled two spearment Life Savers and popped them into his mouth. Like Mellie, he opted to use his Blackberry to take some notes, or so Olivia assumed. He could even have been checking Reuters for the Knicks' game score, for all she knew.

"What's one of the biggest mistakes companies make that costs them returning business from a customer?"

"A delay in delivery of the product?" someone called from up front.

"Errors in the finished product?" Olivia countered.

"The finished product or service didn't live up to the sales proposal executed on the contract," a smug voice announced beside her. To her annoyance, James smiled. "It could be a specific service, when and how it was delivered, or that the value of the services didn't live up to the price they paid. We've got to give the customer what they paid for."

"Spoken like a broker."

"Guilty."

"Give the man a gold star."

 _Even if he was late._

The Q&A portion of the seminar continued in earnest.

Olivia was lulled slightly by the buzz of the conversation. All of it began to run together after a while.

Her mind drifted to sunny beaches and sand pushing through her bare toes. _Drat him._

He felt the change in her. Her face, in profile, softened and relaxed, and she looked more appealing to him. He liked seeing her look pensive instead of pissed off. Not that he _liked_ her, or anything. Not really.

The traitorous thought nagged him that he wanted her horizontal again. And again. And _again_ …

His hand drifted over the edge of his desk. His knuckles barely grazed her elbow with the peace offering.

"Mint?" Her head whipped around in surprise.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Sure?"

"I'm fine," she repeated. Her stomach picked that moment to argue with her. It growled audibly.

Lunch wasn't for another half hour.

"Going once. Going twice." Her hand reached out tentatively, paused, then darted out and plucked the mint from the wrapper. "That'll be five bucks," he deadpanned.

"You wish." She popped it into her mouth and crunched it savagely between her teeth.

His nostrils flared. _You can still make a wish._

"Nah. _You_ wish." She paused in chewing and stared back at him fully, his intent sinking in. The air between them was charged with unsettling energy. She felt itchy, tightness crawling over her nape. His eyes dilated and he licked his dry lips.

A loud, strange "blip" sounded from the front of the hall. The screen blacked out.

"What on earth? That didn't sound good. Can we call tech support?" Jake was already on his cell, speed-dialing the number and pausing by James's podium to fiddle with the laptop.

Olivia took that moment to stretch her legs, welcoming the reprieve. "Excuse me." She stepped around him into the aisle, her legs buffeting his knees. The contact made her tingle.

He wanted to protest until she bent down and retrieved the pencil in question, offering a perfect view of the supple, gorgeous curves of her ass in her dark slacks. His stomach clenched and he felt a tightening between his legs. _Geez._

She was turning him on, even dressed as a scary librarian.

"All right, folks, let's go ahead and break for lunch early. I've called the catering desk, and they're already setting everything up."

"Yahoo," Haley muttered. "I'm starving."

"No shit," Theresa agreed easily.

"I have to grab my protein shake from my car. I'm counting carbs," Cassandra bragged. She already looked like she could do a hula hoop through a Froot Loop, in Olivia's humble opinion. Cassandra was one of those micro-managing, uptight women that made horrible managers. She could have used a donut to kill that bug up her butt.

Olivia didn't need any more prompting. Not caring about the lack of propriety, she asked Mellie, "Hand me my purse?" Mellie complied.

"What's your rush?"

"I want to make sure they don't run out of fruit salad. Beat the rush." She leaned over Fitz and met her halfway.

He caught another whiff of her light perfume. Vanilla. Her breasts were almost close enough to –

Damn it. She was off and running.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that her pulse raced with every step.


End file.
